#on t and with my job i’ve been getting way more fat around my gut as my arms and shoulders and legs take the muscle lead | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

bitchysongcomputer · 3 years ago

Text

Married Men by BearTrainer

From BeefyFrat Library, before it disappears.

Don’t ask me what finally made me do it. I guess surfing all those gainer sites and lurking around those bulletin boards after Janine and the kids were in bed. Of course, when I first found them all, I did what you usually do. I knew they got me hot, but I just told myself I was bored and stressed out from work, which is true. Now that my contracting business is taking off, work is far more of a bitch than it ever was when I was hurting for jobs. But, you know that’s bullshit, even I knew it was at the time. So I’d jack off real quick to some of the hot stories, some of those big belly pics and drawings, and then forget about it. I’m not gay—I’m not. Janine still turns my crank after 15 years, and if it weren’t such a hassle, me being boss and all, I’d gladly go pussy-chasing with the Mexican crew I got on Friday night. It’s just that when it comes to fat guys, guys blimping, guys getting soft, sprouting a gut and growing tits, I pop a boner. The rest of that gay shit doesn’t do anything for me—just fat guys. So after getting up enough nerve to exchange a few E-mails with some of the cooler dudes on the gainer boards, I decided to see what kind of action I could scare up for myself. Opened a Hotmail account and got my ad together: Straight married encourager guy looking for straight married gainer into getting fed, growing gut. No strings or romance. Just hot man-to-man action. I’ll bring the eats. You bring the appetite. Beginners welcome. I put that last part in mostly to cover my own ass, since I’d never been with a guy, period, no less doing any kind of shit like this. And maybe it was my own denial or something, but even though I plastered the ad everywhere I could think—even on the Yahoo personal boards, for Christ’s sake!—I didn’t really think I’d get a response. And for a month or two, I didn’t. But then. . . . I remember thinking, "Man, he sounds a helluva lot more nervous than even me," when I answered the phone and heard him say, "Hey, man, this is Gary," then a long pause, "You know, from the ad. . . ." Like I wouldn’t know. Right. Like I hadn’t fucking waited three days by the phone. "Hey, Gary! Cool. I was wondering if you were going to call." "Well, you know, stuff came up. How you doing?" "I’m great. Just great. How’s by you?" I could hear him coughing, clearing his throat. "I’m OK. So, what’s the deal? You want to meet or what? What do you usually do?" I was such a wuss about this, I don’t mind telling you. I’d been putting these ads out and actually hadn’t really even thought about what the fuck I’d do if someone called. But I think quick on my feet, so I said, all cool and suave, "Well, let’s at least meet for a cup of coffee, then you know, if we want to take it the next step, we can always go down the street for a tub." "What do you mean, like a hot tub?" I was thinking of the place next town over where Janine and I would go every once in a while before the kids. It was nice, not sleazy, well-run, and all the rooms had a little bed and a sauna. Plus, I wanted to get a look at this guy before I committed myself to anything. You know, what if he was some ugly old skank or something. "Yeah, but let’s just talk first. Like I said, no strings." He hung up so quick after I named a place to meet that I really didn’t think he’d show, so after telling the guys I was taking off to price a job in the city, I brought some paperwork with me the next day, got my coffee and figured I’d wait a half-hour, no more. Knock me over with a fucking feather if he doesn’t show up like right on the button and isn’t like one of the hottest guys I’ve seen. Just the way I like them—looking about early 30’s, real all-American, about six-foot, should have been about 180 and maybe was for most of his life, but clearly packing an extra 30 or so, lots of it hanging over the front in a sort of clingy yellow T-shirt. "Gary, it’s Doug. How you doing, guy?" I thought he’d be a nervous wreck, the way he sounded yesterday, but evidently he got his shit together and looked cool, sat down, chunky football player ass and legs spreading big on the seat, smiling like we were both being bad boys. Figured I might as well set a tone. "Can I get you something? Couple of donuts. Coffee." Still smirking, he nodded, "Yes. And yes." So we chit-chatted some, keeping our voices a little low. Turned out this was his first time with a guy, but his wife—he wouldn’t tell me her name, just called her "my wife"—seemed to be intent on fattening him up. "You should see what she cooks for me. And I don’t dare tell her I can’t eat any more, because I get the look, you know. Plus she’s always handing me what our daughter doesn’t eat. And of course there always cake and ice cream in front of the tube. It’s like I get up feeling like a stuffed pig sometimes when I get into bed. You see, this." He rubbed his gut. "All in the last two years, and I can’t lose it. So I figured, why not just forget about it and let it go." Thinking to work him a little, get him hot, I said, "The wife likes it that way, doesn’t she?" He smiled shyly. "She can’t keep her hands off it. Neither can the guys at work. They’re always ribbing me, but that’s why I called you. Because it like turns me on when they do that shit. Am I, like twisted or something?" I leaned back and pushed the second donut at him, trying to act smug, like I was the big expert. He looked like a little boy, cheeks munching away, looking up at me. "I don’t know, man. What’s twisted? I just know what I like." I waited till he swallowed. "So, you feeling like a tub?" He laughed out loud and slapped his belly. "Yeah. You bet I’m feeling like a tub. But I guess you mean a hot tub, huh?" If this was his first time, it didn’t show. I went in first and paid, and then he waited in his truck a little and came in after, just in case anyone might see us walk in together. I had my wits about me—either that or my old army training—but I had crammed my bag full of plenty of supplies from the bakery around the corner from work where all the lardasses seemed to go, all the stuff I’d fantasized for years seeing a guy eat—chocolate eclairs, a big box of butter cookies, a marble cake, and a bunch of cupcakes. (I’d have loved to bring a coconut cream pie but I couldn’t figure out how to smuggle it in, since you’re not supposed to bring food into the tub place.) Anyway, the door hardly closed when suddenly big Gary was all over me, pressing his overfed belly right into mine and knocking me back against the wall, nuzzling my neck with his face, smelling of sweat and sugar. I ran my hands over his straining T-shirt, feeling the heft of him, rolling his fat back and forth in my palms, half-teasing, half-dominant, and using my own strength, pushed him back. "Whoa, whoa, whoa, bubba. Not so fast. You gotta do what I say or you ain’t gonna get your eats." I stuck my thumb in the deep depression of his navel. "Got that, gainerboy?" It was a risk, I knew, pulling that attitude, but figured putting it out there would give us something to work with. He smirked, embarassed and horny, and played along. "Sure, man. Whatever you want. You be my coach. I’ll follow orders." Then he hung his head and looked up at me. "Pants off." He obeyed, but when he went to pull his jockeys off, I smacked his hand. "Leave them on." I went over to my bag and started laying out the goodies in front of him, taking my time, keeping my own gym shorts and tank-top on, looking at the fine sight of his belly hanging out of the now loose T-shirt. We were both throwing major woodies, but I just stood there and took in the sight of him, like he was a big piece of beef, and that really seemed to make him crazy-hot, started pulling on his dick. I cocked my head toward the bubbling tub, and saying nothing, we climbed in with our clothes on, as if we were just straight guys doing a jacuzzi together, but I pushed him back and climbed on top of him, running my face and hands over the now soaking-wet, clinging T-shirt, straddling his fat thighs with my legs and sort of sitting on his lap. We didn’t talk, rubbing our face next to each other. I wasn’t sure I really wanted to kiss him, to tell you the truth, having never smooched with a guy, but eventually we started, mostly because it seemed he wanted it, and I had to say, the taste of his tongue was a real turn-on. I just kept thinking about how his whole life was going to revolve around that greedy mouth of his, his big hungry greedy voracious gainer mouth, how he was starting to live for his food, for being fed, for getting everything he could into that mouth, and at some point I guess I eventually started to say shit like that in his ear, whispering it, being a big tease, talking into his mouth. The whole feeling of this big dude under me, slick and wet, begging for it, was the most intense turn-on and he just moaned when I flipped both our cocks out of the shorts and started belly-fucking under the water. "You like this?" he said, his eyes kind of closed, putting his hands down my shorts and holding my ass. "I mean, you’re so tight, you work out." I poked my cock right into his underbelly as a response. "I don’t know. What do you think? You think I like this?" He moaned a little louder and pulled me into him a little harder. "I’d have to say yes. But man, like I’m so fucking fat." "That you are." I kept up the belly fucking, holding his wrists down on the sides of the tub, licking on his chin. "And you are going to get fatter." "Oh fuck. Really? You want me fatter. I’m such a blimp already." "You saw that food, didn’t you?" He licked his lips, looking over my shoulder at the spread. "You ain’t going to make me eat all that? Man, I’ll be sick. Already had a huge lunch." I grabbed his lovehandles under his shirt and started jiggling them, his soft mantits shaking just above the surface of the water in wet, nearly see-through T-shirt. "Yeah, I can feel it, right here, fatso. Is this where the guys at work poke? In your fat, right here. What do they call you these days? Chubs? Tubby? Jellybelly?" He was getting breathless, which I figured meant he was getting close, so I stopped the belly-fucking, peeled off my own shirt and shorts, threw them into a wet heap across the room and moved over to the other side of the tub. He didn’t expect this, but I was really getting off on being a cocktease for change, I guess ‘cause of all the years of having chicks do this teasing shit to me. Kind of helped me see it from their perpsetive, you know what I mean. It was pretty damn fun. Anyway, he started to come over but I stopped him with a foot, wiggling my toes in his flab. "Uh, uh, uh. Food first. Fun later. Just relax, big guy. Take a breather. We got a whole hour." He shook his head and decided to give me a taste of my own medicine, sitting back across the tub from me and lifting up the wet shirt just over his tits and cupping them, trying to act real matter-of-fact. "If I gain any more weight, I’m going to have D-cups, what do you think?" Thing was his tits weren’t really that big yet, most of the weight was in his belly and hips, but I played along because it was kind of hoot talking about a guy’s breasts, plus it was very hot watching a guy fondle himself, breasts all hairy and butch. "Nips getting sensitive, darlin?" I said, looking away like I didn’t give a shit. "All the gainers I know say their nipples start fucking talking to them after a while." He chuckled at that and wincing a little, began to flick the tips of his nipples with his fingers. "Yup, they’re talking all right. Hear em?" I guess I deserved it for being a prick, but the sight of it was kind of driving me crazy, him leaning back, double-chin under his sexy, cleanshaven face, teats almost as big as Janine’s when she was revved up, and it was about all I could do to keep bringing myself off in the water in my own shorts. So I used my feet again and knocked his hands away from his breasts. "Yeah, I hear ‘em. They’re saying, ‘Feed this fucker. Get him big.’ " and with that, I climbed out of the tub and started toweling myself off right next to him. He was definitely getting off on my body—which after years of construction gets plenty of looks still, I will say that—but frankly, I wouldn’t look twice at a guy like me, while a big soft old doughboy like Gary just was working me to the bone. But there he was, jacking himself furiously as he watched me, so I gave him a little show, a few ass shorts, flexing the legs, shooting a bicep curl now and then. His face was red and sweaty, eyes kind of going glassy from being so turned on, and he looked like he was having the time of his life. "Isn’t that what they are saying, Gar? Aren’t those nipples saying, ‘Mmm, mmm, want some pound cake.’ " I lazily made my way over the to the bed and sat cross-legged on it, arranging the food around me. "Or maybe it’s that hungry mouth of yours?" He didn’t say anything, but with a big whoosh, he hoisted himself out of the tub, struggled to get his soaking wet clothes off, blubber shaking the whole time, which I wasn’t about to complain about at all, and then, quickly drying himself, made his way over to the bed. I checked out his cock, which wasn’t as long as mine but was real thick and uncut, which kind of surprised me, and with a sound kind of like "oomph," he plopped down parallel to me on his back, all the goodies lined up between us, making a pillow with his towel, so his head was propped up. In this position, his belly flattened out some, but I could still see the roundness spreading and his navel looked real deep. "You want dessert?" I tore off a hunk of cake and nibbled on it myself. He still didn’t say anything, and I couldn’t figure out if he was embarassed about this, or ashamed, or if this was part of the turn-on for him, having me take charge like this, but he nodded, staring straight into my eyes for a long time, and then parted his lips and closed his eyes. So I started feeding him like that, at first giving him chunks that were way too big, but then realizing that all my fantasies of cramming guys full of food had to be brought into reality and that little bite-size pieces made it easy to just keep the rhythm going, one after another, trying to time his swallows with another little bit ready and waiting, right on the edge of his lips. He was moaning and groaning the whole time from pleasure, making little baby sounds, and I let myself sort of lean over him so I could hear him better, because I found that part of it really, really hot, like he were my son and I was his dad, and I was growing him into a huge fat stud. In fact, pink and round and fat as he was, he sort of looked like a little kid, and so I just started rubbing his belly really affectionately, not like sexual or nothing, rubbing my hands in long, slow circles up from his navel to just under his pecs and back, like I sometimes did on my own kids backs to help them go to sleep. Well, big Gary put away a pound cake, gut getting higher and tighter toward the end and he managed to pack away about a dozen sugar cookies before opening his eyes and saying, "Got a take a break, Doug. Belly’s real full." The look in his eyes made me think he was hurting, but the smile on his face told me a different story. So, I raised my eyebrows, said, "Hey, sure," but since he had responded so well to me being kind of a mean bastard, I decided to keep it up, and sat back, took one of those heavily iced cupcakes in my hand and began to lick it off. "Man, is this shit ever good! I don’t usually eat this stuff, but now I see why you fatguys like it. Real sweet. Real soft." My cock was jutting straight up against my own flat belly and I just thinking about all those chicks I had see in the Playboy movies and the way that they made you really believe that they didn’t want to do anything but go down on that guy’s prick, like they were living to suck that fat cock. So thinking of that, I made love to that sweet cupcake like I’ve never made love to anything. "I mean, you can’t be full yet. Big dude like you. You gotta wanta just taste this, don’t you? You don’t want me eating all your treats up, do you, bigguy?" I started making little thwacking sounds with my lips, thinking that might do it, and sure enough, Gary closed his eyes again and opened his mouth, my signal to start feeding. Well, getting this round down him was a little more work, and in all honesty, I started feeling a little sorry for him, because his gut really did start to look like a beachball and there was an edge to his groaning that made me think we were moving past pleasure into pain. But the fact was, the whole time, his cock was hard as a rock, drooling like a hose pipe and he opened his mouth to whatever I offered. After the last cupcake, he was breathing real hard, his eyes sort of rolling back in his head. "I’m like getting a sugar rush or something," and I don’t know what made me do it, I guess instinct, but I grabbed his cock and began to slowly give him a handjob. I’d never touched another guy’s cock before, this was the first time, yet the position we were in made it easy for me, you know, side by side, kind of like I was jacking myself off. "Breathe deep, baby. Just breathe into your belly. Make a little room in there." The back of my hand was stroking his lower belly and I could feel him doing what I was saying. "You just gotta keep breathing. It’s like any kinda training. You know what I’m saying." His prick was really slimy, which wasn’t my most favorite part of this, but he started to clench his big ass with every stroke of mine and the movement seemed to make him more comfortable. "That’s right," I prompted him. "Get into it. Fuck my fist. Come on, you’re fat and happy, ain’t you?" He knocked my hand away suddenly and grabbed himself, a sign the big guy wasn’t going to be lasting too much longer. Staring right into my face, he croaked out, "Eclair," and fumbling a bit, I managed to lay hold of an eclair, aiming it right into his open mouth as his whole body tensed and released. It was an amazing sight, seeing this overfed guy cumming next to me, a sight I had only dreamt of for many years. I could see all his muscles tight, but on top of it all was a big quivering layer of manfat, shaking like jello, the orgasm just shooting through him in waves, his mouth frantically trying to down the eclair I had pushed in it without choking, and again, mostly from instinct I guess, I got on my knees, aimed my own cock straight over his stomach and with no more than five solid pulls, shot my wad on that blubberbelly quivering underneath me. I had cum about a thousand times thinking about this, spewing right on top of a big man’s fat hairy stomach, and it was like I stayed there frozen for a real long, the orgasm absolutely one of the most intense I had ever had, so intense I forced myself to keep my eyes open, to take the whole fucking scene in, and just when I thought I was done, I heard Gary groan, saw his lips smeared with cream and chocolate and damn if I didn’t fucking lose it all over again. This time I let out a yell, because this had never happened to me, cumming twice right on top of each other, and it scared the shit out of me, thought I might be having a convulsion or something, and I guess Gary saw that because he put one of his arms around the back of my neck and using his strength, pulled me straight down on top of him, holding me like a fucking doll against his huge warm soft body, as I just let loose again, thrashing wildly, crying, hunching my prick into his belly. It was like I had been reduced to some kind of animal or something, and all I could think about was trying to stay conscious while I rode this incredible wave of pleasure—not my family, not my job, not my wife, not my kids, not nothing—just this mind-blowing orgasm. All I can say was that it was a good thing Gary was a big strong guy, because he held me good and just let me carry on, all of him shaking underneath me from laughter. I ended up laying completely limp on top of him, drooling between his pecs, panting, feeling my own thighs wedged between his, my cock just sore and throbbing buried in his fat, almost too sensitive for me to touch. Trying to get my own shit together, I mumbled something like "Goddamn. That was a first," and taking stock of the situation without moving, I realized that both of us were pretty much of a mess, between the food, sweat, spit, and cum. He was stroking my head and I responded by reaching up and the back of my own hand against his cheek. "First for me, too," he said, good-humoredly. "You could have warned me you were a wild man." "Then I thought you might get scared off." I managed to say this and sound like I knew what I was talking about. "You know how uptight married guys are." "Don’t I ever!" We both laughed, and after hearing the buzzer for ten minutes, took our time showering. Worst part was realizing suddenly that the only clothes we had were the soaking wet things laying in the corner. "Oh fuck," I said, wringing the shorts and T-shirt out. "Guess I’ll have to say I went to the gym." Gary made a face, holding the shirt. "Wish I could use that excuse. I’m going to have some major explaining to do. Walking down the street, looking like the goddamn Goodyear blimp in a wet T shirt. Least I got my pants." He caught me looking and laughed again. "You are a big prick, aren’t you? Use me and abuse me." I smirked. "Me? What are you talking about? You ever going to call me again or you just gonna just dump me?" He fiddled with his wedding ring, not thinking about it, far as I could tell, but that’s what he was doing. "We’ll see. It’s going to take me a month to digest what you fed me today." I gave him a soft punch in the gut, copping one last feel before we opened the door and went back to real life. "Yeah, yeah, yeah. Anyway, you got my number. Thursdays are good for me." Then I handed him the four eclairs left over in the box. "Here, share these with the wife and kids. My compliments." He stuck his tongue out. "You are a prick, aren’t you?" Guess I fed him good, because I never heard from him again. I did hear from a lot of gay guys who didn’t seem to be able to read, though, or who musta thought I was kidding when I said I was looking for straight, married guys. I didn’t answer any of them, mostly because the pics they sent didn’t do much for me, but also it was clear that they were looking for love in all the wrong places, as far as I could tell. I was certainly not going to be throwing my whole life down the toilet for a little gainer fun on the side. Plus, I couldn’t figure out what to say without sounding, you know, like an asshole. What was I supposed to say--"Sorry, I don’t get into fat queens," which is what they were. My momma always said, if you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all. So I just didn’t write back. Anyway, a month or so passed and then, finally, I got a note someone who could not only read English but wrote me quite an intelligent-sounding letter, by the name of George. Said he was a college professor, kids grown up, wife away a lot and said he was doing all the exploration he had put off for all these years. Clicking on the attachment, a pic came up that did a number on me—him wearing a Speedo on the beach, taken from below, big goofy smile on his bearded face, eyes squinting from the the sun, and what looked like quite a hefty, hairy belly and big soft manpecs, real dark tan. I popped a big boner immediately, not so much because he was a fat fox, which he was, but really because he was the spitting image of my father-in-law. That, I will say, felt a little weird, jacking off thinking about Russell while looking at this guy George’s picture, but after cumming, I knew I’d have to get together with this dude, just to push the envelope. He was real friendly on the phone and very well-spoken, so I knew he wasn’t giving me a line about him being a professor and all. This put me immediately at ease and we shot the shit some, all the usual stuff—no, the wives didn’t know, yes, we had both been into this for as long as we could remember, no, we weren’t looking for romance, just play—moving quickly to "how’s your schedule look?" When I said it looked good, name a day, he said, "I don’t know what you usually do, but may I suggest this? Let’s meet at La Picante for a little Mexican fiesta and then, if you can wait till next Friday, I’m going to have the whole house to myself." "How come?" He chuckled. "My wife travels a lot on business. She’s an entertainement lawyer. It does make it convenient, however. I got very tired of having sex with my socks and shoes on. Plus, going out to eat makes it easy, get filled up, do a little take-out and finish it off in the privacy of my own boudoir. You want to see if you can help me beat my taco record?" "Yeah?" I had cruised all the eating contest sites in the course of my websurfing, and knew this kind of turned me on. "How many?" "So far 21, at a single sitting. But that was when I was a mere slip of a thing at 245." I felt myself get real hard real quick. "And what’s the weight now?" "Hovering around 270. Need help to push that needle over. You up for some pushing, Doug?" I was up for some pushing, all right. I had always dreamt about being with a guy that huge, seeing how far I could take him. So I was definitely up, no problem, except maybe keeping from whacking off right here in my office where any of the Mexicans could walk in, which they usually did without knocking. We decided to meet on Friday after work, and that whole week I jerked off over his pic, thinking about rubbing suntan oil all over that gut. I also found myself saying, "Daddy" when I came, which freaked me out a little, but I tried not to think about that too much. I wanted to get there early, order some stuff like margaritas the place was famous for and sort of set the stage, but the professor beat me to it, already camped out at the table with a basket of chips, three bowls of salsa, and a frosty pitcher waiting. He rose, looking hefty and preppy, wearing a snug striped button down and khakis with the pockets flaring a bit on account of what I saw was a big rumproast on him. He was a lot darker and hairier looking in person and a lot bigger than the pic he had sent, looked to be about ten years older than me. The handshake was strong, and the smile was real friendly. I liked him right away and felt like I was with someone who knew what he wanted and knew how to get it. It felt kind of good to not have to be in charge. He piled the chips into his mouth in a steady stream while talking. Looked to me like he was a born eater, and when I said something, he laughed a little, wiping sauce off his beard and licking his fingers off. "Yeah, I eat like a breathe. Spent most of my life trying to hold back, but once the kids left, I said, ‘Fuck it, life’s too short.’" "Does the wife give you trouble about the weight?" He waved the waiter over and made a face. "She makes noises like she cares, but she doesn’t. I mean, I think she knows about me, my being bisexual, I mean. I think she’s known for years. Her approach is very ‘don’t ask,’ and mine is very ‘don’t tell.’ So it works. After being married 25 years, it’s not an especially pressing issue. Say, you want something?" I ordered a combination plate, thinking what I didn’t finish, George would get—turned me on thinking about making the big guy eat my leftovers, I have to say. However, George had definitely been through this drill, because he told the waiter that he wanted him to just start bringing tacos in batches of three until he told him to stop. The waiter looked at him strangely, but then I caught the dude checking out the professor’s gut and realized George was for real, so he just nodded and asked, "Chicken, beef or pork?" "One of each. And when you see me start on the third one, you start getting the next three ready." I was stiff as steel down below, something about watching this already fat guy intent on shamelessly pigging out in public was making me nuts, and I think George could sense my excitement, because he poured me another ice-cold margarita and snickered. "I like taking my time, Doug. Don’t you like taking your time? Makes the release so much sweeter." Well, that’s when I knew I had met my match in this one. Fasten your seat belt. This guy knew what he was doing all right. "Yeah? You know that from experience?" "Mmm, mmm, mmm." He struggled to get the last handful of chips down, swigging the rest of his drink like it was Kool-aid and crunching loudly on the ice. "Not as much as I’d like, that’s for sure. I’ve got a very demanding gut. Brought some pics for you." And so what does he do then, but he pulls out a bunch of old photos, tosses them on the table in front of me while we are waiting for the food to arrive, and just sits back, legs spread, belly pulling on the lower buttons of his dress shirt—before food!--looking the spider that ate the fly, knowing the effect they’d have on me. "Man, you were in great shape, weren’t you!" He had a few photos of him at about age 25 or 30, I was guessing, at the beach, wearing some real little bikini thing. "Where’s this?" The tacos arrived and he dug in, slurping them up, one bite taking care of half, cheeks stuffed and munching contentedly. "Greece. Family’s Greek. Used to have to visit grandma every summer. Tight gut, huh? I think I was 32’ there." It was hard to believe this was the same guy, really, because in the photos he could have only weighed about what I was weighing, 175, 180. "Really?" "Oh yeah. I was 32" for years. You know, until this." He rubbed his hands around the circumference, taking the opportunity to sling his belt down a little farther and push out his stomach. "I think this fellow measured 50" last weekend." He smiled wickedly. "You’re a contractor, aren’t you? You measure things for a living. That’s makes 18 inches of fat in five years. I don’t tell a lot of people. And a good 80 pounds or so, right? 180, 270. Guess 90. I’ve never paid much attention to the scale till lately. I started eating whatever I wanted whenever I wanted and figured I’ll end up weighing whatever I weigh. Once I got to 250, though, I figured I might as well shoot for a 100 pound gain. That’s been a bit more work than I thought it would be." He leaned forward to catch the drippings of the third taco and I could see his tongue darting in and out of his furry mouth, all red and wet. I wondered if he liked to suck dick. "Hey, why not?" I tried to sound casual and not to stare too much, but the real story was that I was pretty fucking mesmerized. I picked at my food and when the waiter didn’t do as he was told and the tacos didn’t arrive, I decided to give it my own shot, taking one of the tacos off and giving George the rest of the plate loaded with rice, beans, two enchiladas and two big greasy chile rellenos. I didn’t say anything. "So you aren’t going to finish that, huh?" he said, pulling the plate closer toward him, so the edge was almost touching the top of his gut. "Funny, you look real hungry. Or is that blush just the alcohol?" I acted cool but really all I wanted to do was fucking jump his fat ass right there. It was also pretty damn clear though that the professor was in charge of this. So what else did I have to do but toss back my margaritas and watch him eat. And man, did he eat! We were at that fucking restaurant for every little bit of two hours, between him announcing that it was time for what he called "a short hiatus" which meant him shifting around trying to get his now beachball-sized stomach into a position for further feeding, making conversation with me about the wife and kids, as if we was two old buddies catching up, and then starting in for another round. Around taco 18 or 19, he let out a very polite burp and then scooted himself to the end of the chair, letting his gut sag between his legs, elbows on the table, letting gravity make some more room. "You want to help me break my record, don’t you?" "Hey, sure, man. That’s why I’m here." He lowered his voice, as the waiter placed another three tacos in front of him and walked away. "Then this is how you help. Tell me what you like to do." At first I didn’t get it. "Like what do you mean, do?" He wiggled his eyebrows and picked up a taco. He was practically whispering. "You know, do. When you are with a guy." I couldn’t believe it. We were in a crowded restaurant. I was very turned and also very self-conscious, and he knew it. He also knew that I wasn’t going to say no to him. "Well, it’s time for the truth," I finally said. "I ain’t done much." He was munching away, words a little jumbled. "You fuck?" I looked around, hoping no one could hear him but sort of getting off on being so public at the same time. It was really a mindtrip, that I have to say. "Never fucked a guy. No." "Just handjobs then, like in the car, in the park. Right?" I continued to squirm like a deer in the headlights, watching him pile in the 20th taco. "Nope, ain’t done that either." "Tell you what, Doug." He picked up the last taco, full of shredded pork and cheese, and held it in front of his mouth. It was dripping red grease off the end onto his plate. "You want to see me break my record, don’t you?" "Absolutely, man. I want to see you eat that." It sounded lame, but I didn’t know what else to say. "Then you’ll let me suck your dick, won’t you? How’s that sound?" This dude was really out there, I remembered thinking, and I was so strung out at this point, I just bust out laughing at the whole thing. I figured, shit, I might as well say yes, since he had fucking read my mind. He was cool as a cucumber, though, waving that damn taco in front of his mouth, staring me down like he had just asked what time it was. Finally, I pulled myself together, stopped laughing and said, "Hell yeah," figuring I didn’t have to keep my promise, even if he did eat that damn taco. Truth was his mouth looked pretty damn fine for cocksucking, that I had to admit, and I was hoping that I wasn’t wearing a cooz spot of my own in the crotch by now. I don’t think I have been so hard for so long since high school. "Come on, eat it, cocksucker," I said, wearing a big grin. "Earn your keep, you fat fuck." Which evidently got him completely hot, because I have never seen anyone eat and whip out a $50 bill, keep the change and make for the door so fast in my whole life. "Follow me home," he said, waddling toward his brand-new Cherokee, big ass cheeks fighting to get out those khakis, basket almost as swollen high and hard as his belly full of food. Well, the professor was definitely an education for this hound dog. He sucked me not once but twice, the first time barely in the door of his fancy home in the hills, opening my pants and fly with one hand like he had gotten a master’s degree in doing married men on the run. I came in about ten seconds flat and he slurped me all up, getting on his feet and telling me, "Just to drain off the tension. Call it an hors d’oeuvre." The second time was much better, him taking great care of me after he had gotten me all hot and bothered again with that ass of his. Turns out that he got into this very specific sex thing: he pulled his pants down right under the cheeks of his ass, pulled his shirt tails up, so that his humongous soft cheeks sort of squeezed or jutted out in the space between, which is when he wanted me to start patting them—not slapping or spanking them, just jiggling. We were in his bedroom at this point and I have to admit the whole thing was really a trip, because he had positioned us so I could see the two of us reflected in the full-length mirror on the closet door off the mirror on the nightstand where all his wife’s shit was, hairbrushes, make-up, lipsticks Of course, he could see himself too, watching my hands on his cheeks, shaking his fat, watching me get into it with two hands, getting a rhythm going, each buttcheek bouncing up and down. "Rough hands," he grunted out at one point, pulling on his own cock with his eyes half-closed. "Like that." "Like that?" I said, giving him a little bit of a slap, making him jump. "Yeah, keep it up. I’m so fucking fat. I’m so fucking fat," which he just said over and over again until he shot onto the carpet, with me watching him in the mirror from behind, all of his blubber shaking under its own power at that point. I had such a big boner then I actually thought about maybe porking the guy, after all, his ass was right there practically begging for it and I was ready to go off again, but then I thought maybe that’s what he wanted to do all this for and I backed off, decided an another long, excellent bj would do fine. He was in fact a very excellent cocksucker, but my theory is that most gainers are. What do you call it, oral fixation? He lived for my dick for about a half hour, cupping his big titties the whole time and moaning, and it felt great, standing there, my hands on my hips, my big old prong wet and warm, feeling him suck that second load right out of me. I didn’t have to do shit, just come in his mouth a second time, and the look on his face was just priceless, like he’d won the Kentucky Derby. Now, trippy as the whole scene was, you can’t argue with getting two great blowjobs in a day, can you? It’s the kind of thing that I think maybe only a married guy can really bend his mind around, lucky as we are to maybe get one good blowjob every year. And the professor was digging it big time, no hesitation, no whining, just pigging out on cock, my cock. That was when I decided I liked doing gainerguys for real, right there in George’s bedroom in the hills, and on the way home, I was hoping that the professor might turn out to be a very useful tension reliever for those days when you just need to get off and you know that it ain’t going to be happening at home. Shit, this stuff was great, I thought: I didn’t even have to pay for dinner. He could be my fat cocksucking daddybear any old day he wanted. . . . Well, the thing with George went on for a bunch of months, as a matter of fact. His wife was traveling a lot that summer, some case of hers she was working on, and he’d call whenever she was gone. It got to the point I’d answer the phone at work and all I’d hear was "I’m hungry," which meant "Show up at La Picante at 5:30 pm." Which I would. He built his capacity up to a pretty impressive 35 tacos, and so he blimped to way past 300 in a flash. Or I guess I should say, in reality, he didn’t know what he weighed at that point because the scale they had only went up to 300, a fact I never failed to mention as his "breaking the goddamn scale," which always gave him a hard-on when I said it. And talk about quick, easy and painless--he was a married man’s dream come true, a little bit more of a prissy queen than at first glance, I found out, but hell, I wasn’t about to grouse. Even Janine noticed I seemed to be much more relaxed at home after work on those Fridays, and when she said something about it at dinner, I grinned and said "We’re raking in the dough these days with all these jobs. Sure, I’m in a good mood," wondering what she’d do if she knew I was getting my hose drained on a regular basis by a fatman. It was really all I could to keep from cracking up. But then, it all started having an effect. First thing I caught was me staring at big guys wherever I was, sometimes like really obviously without even knowing I was doing it. Going to Home Depot on the southside was like hog heaven—those dudes must do nothing but munch a bunch in the back, because every last one of them is fat-bellied piglets, waddling around the aisle, guts sticking out, and then they’d get up on those ladders, stomachs and lovehandles hanging out of their shirts with me looking up, and whew, sometimes it just got to be too much for me. I had to sometimes literally close my mouth and try to turn away before I gave the whole jig up right there in the power tool aisle. Then it got a little closer to home when my oldest boy Brad came home from school one day and said that he wanted to try out for wrestling this year, but that it meant putting on 25 pounds and what did I think? I didn’t quite know what to say really, because Brad had always been kind of stocky and had taken shit for it from some of the kids growing up, but he said he and his buddy Dan were going to bulk up together, hit the weights, get big. I got the same kind of freaky feeling then as I had had when I had been jacking off to George’s pic that time while thinking about Janine’s father. So, I said it was his decision, just no drugs or I’d bust his ass, and he looked at me like I had three heads, because I had never said anything like that to him before. I didn’t want to start thinking about what it might be like to have a gainer son right under my own roof, but of course I couldn’t help thinking about it and getting turned on, which it made it kind of hard sometimes to relax when I was with George, because I felt mixed up and kind of weird and guilty. But the final straw came when we all finished the Woodward job, this big mother of a custom house that tipped me into a six-figure income bracket and forced me to hire all the Mexican guys I had working for me now. Anyway, we’d been on that for a solid nine months and the day we turned it over, I took the crew out for a party at this divy Mexican bar place where the muchachos all hung out—figured they could use some serious Corona-action after what a pain in the ass the Woodwards had been with all their design changes and demands. So anyway, I’m the only gringo at this place and there’s Miguel, my foreman, who used to be my handyman and is now running the show for me on site, meanwhile there’s also the whole crowd of his friends and relatives he had me hire who did a good job for me after all because they appreciated getting the steady work so much instead of all that shitty day labor. The cholos are getting plenty blitzed, dancing and carrying on, and I’m feeling no pain either after an easy five or six Coronas, so I go outside for from fresh air and a smoke, about ready to take off when Justino, Miguel’s brother-in-law, comes out, this little fireplug of a Mexican guy, pretty quiet, never said much, to me or to anyone. Justino looks wasted and fumbling lights up a cigarette, too. "I just wanted to say thanks for the work, Senor Douglas. It’s been hard getting jobs, you know." I shrugged and smiled politely, realizing just how buzzed I was. "You all did a good job. Don’t worry about it." So then he’s standing there, shifting back and forth, and if I hadn’t been so shit-faced maybe I could have seen it coming, but then, real casual, he says to me, "You like guys, don’t you?" A chill goes up my spine and I look at him. "What did you say?" I ask him, real sharp, throwing down my cigarette and stamping on it. "I just see the way you look at us. You know, you like guys, too, don’t you, Senor Douglas." Which is when I realized he was fucking trying to come on to me. Maybe it was the beer, maybe it was who knows what, but I stand there like I been hit by lightning and it just fucking comes out of me. "Yeah, I like guys. Only I like fat guys." To this day, I can’t believe I said it, but I guess I thought it would throw him off the trail or something. Or maybe I just wasn’t thinking too straight after all the brew. "So, if I get fat, we can do it?" I couldn’t believe he was serious but damn if he didn’t look like he was, all shy and aggressive at the same time. "You are really a hunk, you know what I’m saying. I think you are a real man, you know." "Justino, come on," I tried to brush it off. "Knock that shit off. You’re married, wife’s pregnant. Who are you trying to shit?" His eyes got real wide and that’s when I really felt the fear of God, because he was dead on, no-shit, totally fucking serious. No joke. "I know. She’s all big, and like, I ain’t had any, and I keep seeing you and, senor, you are like driving me crazy. How much you want me? 200? 250?" Well, I sobered up right quick and realized if I didn’t handle this one right, the jig would be up, because this was Miguel’s wife’s sister’s husband and what one of them knows the whole pack of them knows. All of this was just beginning to hit way, way too close to home, so I bust out laughing, mostly from nerves, and tossed the whole thing off like he was pulling a joke on me. "What are you now? 160, 170? Huh? 200, Justino. You weigh in at 200 and we’ll talk. Okay?" And I poked him in the belly and walked off, sweating pouring off me like I’d jumped in a pool. Fun’s over, I decided that night driving home. No more of this shit. It was getting way too complicated. I wasn’t hiding my tracks well enough, not if fucking Justino, who I said maybe two words to in nine months, could tell what was up with me. Then add on to that the fact that the more I got, the more I wanted, and where was that going to end? I was already jerking off twice a day, checking my E-mail for messages all the time, hoping every phone call was George. So that was easy to take care of. I closed my Hotmail account the next day, and next time George called I pushed delete on the machine and hoped he wouldn’t call back. I continued to get a little bit of a break on this score when Brad told me that his buddy Dan flaked out on the training and that actually the wrestling coach told him to lose weight if he wanted to try out for the team. They’d want him to qualify for a lower weight class if possible, not bulk up. We were all at dinner that night and Janine cracked up when Brad said the coach had said, "It ain’t sumo, you know. I want my boys light." "Guess that means no more apple pie, huh?" she said, dishing out dessert. "Give mine to Dad," he said, flashing me a smile. "He’s the one that needs to bulk up." Yup, it was getting way too close to home, all right. That night I deleted all the gainer shit from the computer—all the links to all the sites, all the stories I had downloaded, all the pics. It took about ten minutes to wipe out almost all of a year’s worth of obsession, which made me feel good because I had always been a little worried about Janine or one of the boys coming across it, even with all my passwords and stuff. George did call twice more, even though I hadn’t called him back, and in the last message said he wouldn’t call again, which also made me feel good. So that was that. Chapter closed on a dark corner of my life. I thought a lot about why and how I had gotten onto that track, but really, mostly I tried to forget about it. And I would have been able to, except for Justino. . .. So, my life is going just totally dead-on normal. It’s a warm spring for a change. I go to work, send Miguel out to supervise the jobs, I stick in the office to handle all the bids and estimates, occasionally go on site to check up on the guys, then I go home, kiss Janine, toss a ball with Brad and Corey, go to my parents for dinner on Sundays. Very straight. Very suburban. Until one day, about two months later, late in the day, there’s this big sort of commotion in the shop outside the office, a bunch of wild Spanish, not angry really, but like all excited, laughing and so forth, all the guys coming in from this commercial store downtown we were hired to remodel, a Italian deli. They all sound like they are having fun, and I hear Miguel on top of all the voices, so I saunter out, the big padron and what’s in front of me but a circle of these Mexican guys, one of them holding Justino with his arms behind his back, another two lifting up his shirt, exposing what has become a big round brown soft beachball of a borriga, and no one else but Miguel standing there with his hands on it, looking real thoughtful, occasionally putting an ear right on Justino’s deep bellybutton. They are all chattering away, and Miguel sees me and gestures for me to come over. "Ay, Douglas. What do you say? Is it going to be a boy or a girl?" I look at Justino who looks at me, not doing shit to get away, big dark eyes with this strange, kind of proud expression on his face, looking right the fuck at me, no less, and I hear another of the Mexicans say, "Si, senor Douglas. We are wondering how Justino’s wife got him pregnant. Maybe you deliver before her, ay, papi?" Meanwhile Miguel is bouncing the belly back and forth in his hands, and I’m looking at all the fresh new fat which shaking like a flan, and of course, I’m immediately hard, because I haven’t had any of this for months and months and months. "If he gives birth, I think it’s going to be a pair of twins—burritos!" "He is a big burrito, what you saying. He’s going to have rice and beans." "Yo, Justino, no beer for you tonight!" They had their fun at this point, especially since I was hanging around, being the boss and all, so after a few more pokes, they all let the poor guy go, though he didn’t seem be too worse for the wear, and still laughing went about getting ready to go home. I, however, tried to seem like it was just some harmless fun, too, but I don’t think I did a very good job, because who should follow me into the office but Justino, not even closing the door, just standing on the other side of it, lifting up his shirt and rubbing it, teasing me. "Not 200 yet, senor, but soon. See, I getting big belly for you, papi. You want to touch, too?" I stood there and glared at him, trying to pull off the same lame "I don’t know what the hell you are talking about" act as I did outside of Los Caballeros, and being about as convincing as I was then. "You make me pregnant. I get big and fat for you, papi." He pulled up his shirt and ran his finger under his gut, licking his lips, looking at me. "You the man. I want the man." Behind him, through the crack of the door, I could see them all taking off for home in their broken down cars, Miguel looking around for Justino then shrugging and taking off in his new truck. The place was quiet. "Come on, Justino. Don’t do this. You don’t want to do this. I mean, last time, you were drunk. It was a joke. At least I thought it was a joke." He looked at me hard, real hard, almost buying it and then, I blew it. Without thinking, I pulled on my crotch, and he caught me. "Come on, you, senor. No one know. I promise. Who I tell, my wife? Your wife? Women don’t care. My wife like me big and fat. She feed me like a big pig. Feed me like she eating. Feed me for two. Only she don’t know. Come on, senor. I’m happy, she’s happy. You be happy." And knowing I was completely fucked, really deeply, seriously fucked, what do I do? Well, about the only thing I could do. I walked over and closed the door on the two of us, making sure it was locked. "No one knows?" I asked. He grinned. "Senor, we two married men." In everything he had said to me, it was that happy part that got to me: what was "happy"? What it would feel like? For the time being, though, I tried not to think about things like that, choosing to lose my soul instead, burying my face in all that new warm flesh of his, rolls of manfat grown just for me.

6 notes · View notes

keravnous · 3 years ago

Text

- agent 14/agent steve haines; american money

It's a Thursday and it's raining. The raindrops are heavy and loud on impact, running down his windshield like tears. He's on his way to the set and he prays that it'll clear up soon.

"This show will kill you", Warren sits on his bed, sheets lazily draped over his legs. Steve can see where his pubic hair begins and his mouth waters. Warren takes a long drag from his cigarette, blows the smoke into the air.

"It fucking won't, nothing can", Steve's leaning against the door frame, coffee in hand.

"Fuck yes, it can. And it will, lurking around at Forum Drive all day and for what? Two minutes of frightening pictures that will make Karens all over LS go buck wild."

"Who's Karen?"

"Forget about it. Let me suck your dick, Haines, c'mere."

As he arrives near the recreational center and pulls into one of the lots it has indeed stopped raining. The streets are still wet but the sun's coming out again and the air is already mushy with the reblooming heat. There's a lanky man with a dog and he's yelling into his phone - the man that is, not the dog.

He knows who the guy is, even though he most likely doesn't know him, probably he doesn't even know that Steve exists. He's an associate of Franklin Clinton and the Bureau keeps a close eye on him, due to the nature of Clinton being so close with Townley and Philips.

Steve watches Lamar, leaning against the hood of his car, the remaining rain wetting his thigh through the denim.

"Man Frank, you just ain't around no more, homie. That's all I'm saying. Yeah - Yeah, sure whatever, dog - Yeah, fuck yourself too, homie."

He hangs up and stuffs his phone back into his pocket. The dog looks at him. "Man, you get the fool more than I do, Chop. Wassup with him, can you tell me? He always been that fool, but something ain't right there."

Steve knows what ain't right there. Franklin must've picked up by now, or maybe Townley told him, what they were up to that one afternoon at the warehouse. And for what he knows about Clinton and what the intel tells him, the young man probably isn't much of a big fan of government-approved interrogation techniques.

And he probably also won't like what Steve has next in stock. Warren was a little careless the last time around, tongue loosend by sweet kisses and a hand around his dick, when he spoke about a securicar delivering important IAA files soon. It won't hurt 14 but it would definitely aid Steve an awful lot, so he decided to send the boys on the road again, maybe on Tuesday.

The production team's van rolls up next to him and they swarm around him like a stock of bees buzzes around their queen and then there's sound and light checks being run and a woman applies powder to his face. Lamar Davis has not moved a single step. Their eyes meet.

"What are you idiots doing here?", he hollers. Steve wonders if he could be of use.

"We're shooting a show", he replies, while the attach a little microphone to his collar, "The Underbelly of Paradise, you surely have already seen an episode or two."

"You're that Haines-guy then?", something in Lamar's voice makes his skin crawl, his files told Steve that he too is a gangster after all, killing and robbing are some of Davis' favourites. The look he shoots him isn't much friendlier.

"In the flesh", Steve dusts of the sleeves of his polo shirt.

"Yeah, aight. Fuck you then, man. C'mon Chop, we best be leavin', homie. Imma take you back to Frank's crib", oh, there is something in Lamar's voice that Steve definitely doesn't like at all but he just smiles politely at the man, until he's around the corner and out of sight. Steve's smile drops.

"Can we hurry this up a little, people? I don't got all day!" The bees start buzzing again.

The raid on the Humane goes by easier than expected. They are in Warren's living room, as the news inform about the incident. Steve is just pouring himself another glass of wine and Warren looks at him.

He knows, that the other one knows. It's a cover story the IAA will buy, but not Warren. Pain shoots through his legs as he slowly makes his way towards the sofa.

Warren mouths a few words at him. Be careful. Steve nods and leans over, places a soft kiss on his shoulder.

"Learned from the best", he whispers and Warren jerks.

"What?", there's panic in his voice.

"The Rashkovsky Job? The breakout and then his research goes missing?"

Warren blinks at him in disbelief.

"So, did he let you know if he likes it in South America?"

They laugh and Steve feels light, his fingertips tingle with it.

Steve's on his balcony. There's a saxophonist a few meters down the road, playing some Sinatra pieces and the music wraps itself around him like a blanket. The musician's interpretation reaks of melancholy and reminds Steve of the golden days of Vinewood cinema, noir films and cigarette smoke. Musicians playing at street corners isn't something foreign in a city where everyone has dreams of being the next big national superstar, but Steve usually hates him with his guts. This one's different. It touches him and he finds himself enjoying the dark, warm tunes that float through the cool air. It will be autumn soon and Steve's glad that the heat will be gone.

Warren watches him from the inside, leaning against the kitchen counter, lips curled in a smile.

Steve has always hated Michael's bloated and ugly, fat face and now he even gets to point a gun at it. It feels like his birthday and christmas fall on the same day.

"They know or they think they know that I'm the one that was behind the incident."

They stare each other into the ground, guns raised. Steve's ready to fire, has been from the minute Townley walked onto the plaza for the first time.

"Put the weapons down, boys. Fun time's over!", Steve wants to sigh. This is not happening. And then they are suddendly surrounded by their own man Sanchez has sent and then fucking Merryweather's there, too. This is not fucking happening. And so he does the only thing he's always been good at.

"We all know you Agency boys are balls deep in a plot to drive up your fundings by any means necessary", he shouldn't have said that. Warren trusted him with that info, even showed him the intel. He sees something moving behind Agent ULP's eyes, it's fear. He's got him.

Suddendly there's a loud pop and then pain shooting through his left leg. "Same goddamn leg", he blurts out as hell starts to break loose around him. Sanchez blood sprays the concrete in a bright red as the bullet pierces his skull. Steve wishes it would've been Michael instead.

He runs until he can't take the pain no more, then cowers on the ground, slowly robbing behind cover, as Dave and Michael pick up the gun fight. He's bleeding heavily, red liquid rushing out of the wound and drenching his cargos. It seems like the bullet is stuck and maybe has wounded some arteries. He figures that he probably hasn't that much time left. He strips himself out of his shirt and wraps it around his leg, adding pressure on his thigh, just above the bullet wound.

He thinks about Warren. Oh dear God, don't let me die today.

"What did you do?", it's Warren, he's sitting at Steve's kitchen table.

"Did you let yourself in, pretty boy?"

"What happend?", he sounds furious now, gets up and his eyes bore into Steve's. He's dizzy with it, with what Warren's gaze tells him, let's him know without saying a word.

"Nothing, it's nothing."

"You got shot!"

"Yeah, the same leg."

"That's - you're-"

Steve wraps his arms around him and presses him close and Warren releases a surprised noise. "I'm still here", he says and it's more for and to himself, than for Warren but the other doesn't seem to care, burying his face in Steve's neck.

The world's a little brighter and warmer and Steve doesn't feel that threatend anymore. He has to make a phone call, but that can wait a few more minutes.

He has a team on the way to the plant, it will be alright. They'll be gone for good, just another casualty. He sighs, takes a deep breath and throws the script on the seat across from him.

"Are the cameras rolling? Yes? How do I look, the chin's sharp?"

Warren looks at him, eyes still a little hazy from his last orgasm and Steve turns his head and looks at him. He's so pretty and Steve's heart misses a beat.

"I-", his voice breaks and Warren blinks.

"Yeah?"

"I hate you."

Warren laughs. It's deep and dripping with amusement, running down Steve's body like hot honey. He rolls himself over, on top of Warren, who's still laughing deep in his chest, burying a hand in Steve's blond hair.

"No. No, you don't."

They look at each other and their gazes turn soft. "Sometimes I do", Steve's voice is quiet, honesty seeping through his words, "But sometimes I-, I would burn the world down to protect you."

Warren's hand caresses his neck. "My life would be so very boring without you, Haines. It nearly makes me forget that I just really want to skin you alive, sometimes."

It's not really an I love you - I love you too, but it's as close as they can get without hurting their egos. The kiss is soft and sweet and a promise.

"Hi, I'm Steve Haines. I've tracked down killers, attacked incompetence and taken down terrorist cells, and tonight -"

The gunshot rips through the night and the camera man throws himself back, lands unpleasently on his back.

"My god! The guy! What's-his-name! Fuck, shit, they shot him!", he stares down at the dead man, blood rushing out of the bullet wound in the back of his head. The impact had torn some skin and skull apart and there's a nasty opening, his brain leaks out of it. The camera man vomits out of the gondola as sirens erupt in the night.

Warren has his feet up on the coffee table, mindlessly zapping through the programs. It's all shallow and boring and he hopes that Steve will be home soon. Home.

His stomach does a funny little flip and Warren smiles to himself, wraps the blanket around him tighter. It smells of him, his perfume. He closes his eyes and he can practically feel Steve's hand creeping around his neck, resting on his shoulder, heavy and warm. It's always like that, when he comes in on Warren sitting on the sofa. He will lean down and place a feather light kiss on the back of his head, maybe rest his nose there for a moment, taking the other man's scent in for a few seconds, before getting up again and ranting about Norton or another colleague. A fuzzy warmth spreads in his stomach and Warren sighs. A sudden noise interrupts his daydreaming and he lazily opens an eye at the TV. It's a Weazle Broadcast.

"We interrupt our nightly program for an important message. We just recieved notice that FIB Special Agent Steve Haines has been shot on duty at the Del Pierro Pier. Agent Haines died a hero, doing what he loved, which was presenting a TV show. He helped combine the chaos of anti-terrorism and the mindlessness of network television into one highly successful career. Mr. Haines, who was not married, leaves behind his mother."

The world goes silent.

He's not moving. Has not in hours, maybe it's even a full day at this point. He has not eaten, has not showered, has not moved at all.

Warren feels like a dead man. The thought makes a bitter laugh splutter over his lips and then has him break out in tears immediately after.

It's a scary thought that people continue to live their lives, acknowledging that an agent passed away last night but they are now out and about, at their jobs, maybe seeing friends or family. A lover, even. They are busy living their life's while Warren's just dissolved in a matter of seconds.

It's a scary thought being ripped off of something so dear so abruptly, it's scary how it ripped a hole it Warren's chest that is now filled with a black, emotionless but equally painful void that nags, tears and claws at him.

It's a scary thought that he's alone again.

His body, his throat gives in and he's rolling on his side, screaming and tearing at the blanket, fingers grabbing at the fabric, as his knuckles turn white. He's screaming and screaming and screaming until his throat is sore and his eyes burn and the only noises that leave his mouth are little pathetic whines of exhaustion and the gasping for air. The pain in his chest takes his breath away, chokes him and makes him want to curl up, bore a knife into it, twist and turn it until it goes away. He feels like vomiting.

It's Sunday. It's been a little over 30 hours. Warren is tired, but everytime he tries to close his eyes he sees him, hears his laughter ring in his ears. It hurts. It hurts so much, he has hardly any words left to describe the agony he is going through.

His head hurts too, so does his throat and his stomach, with the constant throwing up and the lack of hydration. But he can't bring himself to get up, to grab a glass of water and drown some pain killers and go to bed. His legs are heavy and he just doesn't have the energy.

Warren feels like dying but he's also so painfully alive.

He's wide awake. He'll need to find a solution for how he's going to be able to go to work tomorrow.

But for now he's wrapping himself in Steve's blanket, the one he sleeps in when he's been over, inhaling the fading scent.

"Agent 14?"

His eyes are red, bloodshot and his fingers are trembling, seconds away from shaking. He had powder this morning to just make it somehow and it's slowly wearing off. He hasn't been on coke since college and it sent him on a murder high, blood pumping like a race horse only to now let him dive head-first into a killer hole.

It's been three days since Steve left his life both, quiet and eardrum-tearing loudly, and it feels like a nightmare, eternal and burning hot. He's empty inside but there's also just so much pain, it feels like he's breaking into pieces. His stomach clenches and his heartbeat is heavy, vibrates thickly in his chest and he just wants to die, too.

"Mrs. Rackham", his voice is rough, it doesn't bother to hide that Warren had been crying and screaming his lungs out every night since Steve's brain had been splattered onto the ferris wheel.

"I need to talk to you."

This is about Avon and Clifford, he's sure. His hand shakes and coffee spills on his desk. He curses under his breath and reaches for a tissue but Mrs. Rackham grabs his hand with force. They look at each other. Warren blinks.

"You are not in a good condition. I don't need explanations or lies, 14. I want to offer you my sincere condolences on your loss, Mister Jones. "

Warren takes a deep breath but he can't keep his eyes from tearing up.

"Take the week off, Agent", as he's not moving, shocked and dumbfounded, she starts to pick his jacket up, "Go now, I'll cover you up."

He gets on his feet, knees weak and body shaking, takes his jacket from her hands.

"Thank you, Phoenicia", he means it.

She looks at him. "I'm sorry", and she means it, too, "The IAA could've done some-"

"Don't."

She nods sharply and then looks at him once more, eyes piercing.

"I lost my husband in service as well, Iraq in 2004."

And then they're hugging, Warren is burrying his face into her neck and wailing like a little child.

It's a weird feeling and it fucks with his head as his gaze falls on the door of his apartment. He could've sworn that he heard the key turning the lock. He stares and stares and stares and it feels like his brain is readying for Steve to come through the door anytime.

He doesn't.

It's midnight and he had five more moments like the door-lock one earlier. He feels like he may go insane.

Warren fumbles for his phone on the nightstand and opens up Eyefind, types his thoughts into the searchbar.

At the end of his research he's left with two possibilities: it's either a stage of grief (denial they call it - dying's more fitting, Warren thinks) or the sideeffects of the coke slowly wearing off.

It's raining. It's like the heavens above are pissing down on him. Warren's crying while the rain relentlessly pounds on his umbrella.

He's standing a few meters away from the funeral party. Steve's mother bails her eyes out and he would like to go over to her and wrap her im his arms but he would just be a stranger to her.

There's a saxophonist in front of the cementry. He's playing Sinatra's Summer Wind, sounding sad but warm nonetheless. Steve's family probably thinks of that as a weird coincidence but Warren has spent two full nights finding the man again, who has played down at Steve's street corner all those months ago. It was difficult and time consuming, but not impossible.

There's a new wave of tears making their way out of Warren's eyes and he has to clasp a hand on his mouth to stop the painful noises from making their way into the soft air of spring. He feels like he's breaking apart, torn into two pieces.

He cries and cries and cries until the funeral party is long gone any the sun sets. The saxophonist is still playing.

When Warren comes home the sun's gone for some while and it's dark out. There's a light burning in his kitchen. For a moment, just a split second, it feels like Steve will swing around the corner. But he doesn't.

He walks into the kitchen to find a bouquet of white lillies sitting on the countertop. He checks the card attached to them.

Sorry about your loss.

He doesn't recognize the handwriting, it looks like it could've been written by someone who's older than Warren, male maybe, but his last Hand Writing and Letter Indentification Course was two years ago. He figures his cleaner, a nice elderly lady, had put them there. He thinks about her seeing the bouquet on the door step and carefully carrying them inside, placing them in the only vase Warren has at home. It makes him both sad and glad, glad that at least she's still around.

In three words I can sum up everything I've learned about life: it goes on.

14 would've liked to ask Robert Frost if he was just stupid or naive or both.

Two days later he's so angry at the world that he grabs the vase and throws it across the room, where it collides with the wall and breaks in a thousand little pieces.

The anger keeps on coming, rage that boils hot and white in his stomach, makes him lash out at colleagues and scream his lungs out, throwing things and fits like it's nothing.

He finds himself beating into walls and furniture until his knuckles bleed.

Mrs. Rackham puts him onto another break, Temporarily Suspended Until Further Notice the record reads.

Warren's awake, restless but exhausted, again. It's three in the morning. His head hurts, his bones hurts, his whole body feels heavy.

"I should've stopped you from going", he whispers into the night and his mind conjurs up Steve's voice, consoling him.

"No, really. I should have been more persistent. If you just would've stayed with me that night."

Steve answers him again, but it sounds washed out in Warren's ear.

Oh, please don't let me forget his voice.

He's not moving again. Hasn't done so in two days.

Mrs. Rackham continues to call him, but he won't pick up. He can't handle her, can't handle her sorrow and her advices. He doesn't want to hear it. She would probably also bug him about not showing up for work again and that's just something he really doesn't want to hear right now.

It's phone rings again and he picks it up to throw it against the wall with all the force he can possibly muster, so it would just shut up, but it's not Phoenicia calling this time. It's Lester.

"14? This is Crest." He doesn't sound good. Warren doesn't know what to say.

"I am, ehrm, calling to see how you're doing?" Odd. He can't bring himself to say anything back. "You know I, err, saw you didn't clock in to work for a few days? Are you doing, ehrm, well?"

"Yeah", it sounds as broken as he feels. There's an uncomfortable silence on the other end of the line for a few seconds, maybe even for a full minute. He hears Lester's inhaler.

"I, well I err heard about Haines."

It should send him into a rage, a fit, maybe even crying manically but there's just nothing. Just the casual numbness that hangs above him like thick clouds these days.

"Yeah, a shame, isn't it?"

There's coughing, then deep breaths being taken. "You're not doing too well, Crest?"

"Can we meet up, 14? I", another cough, "I know a place."

The sun's out and it burns in Warren's eyes, on his skin, even though he's wearing both, a jacket and sunglasses. Crest sits across from him at the table, not touching his iced coffee. So isn't Warren, he is neither thirsty nor hungry.

They are at a bean machine on Vinewood Boulevard. It's one of the stores Steve used to buy his coffee at. There should be stining pain at the thought but there's just sadness, blackness wandering through Warren's mind.

"You don't look too good", Crest says.

"You neither", Warren says and to mask the shaking of his voice he takes a sip from the coffee. It tastes like nothing, like liquid paper.

"I don't feel to good either. But you also don't, so what's the matter, 14."

Warren just shrugs. Lester looks at him, a steady and stern gaze, as if he's looking for answers in Warren's eyes, in his fucking soul.

"What are we doing here?"

"Just looking after a, err, friend."

"We're not friends, Crest."

"Associates then, maybe?", the look on his face is a little sad, offended. Warren can't bring himself to care.

"Yeah, whatever."

"Any lead, yet?"

Warren lifts his eyebrows in suprise. "A lead?"

"Yeah, you know", Crest clears his throat and leans in a little, "Who did it, you know."

Maybe Warren's mind is playing tricks on him again, but Crest looks a little concerned.

"No, none. Nothing."

Crest nods and leans back. Lester doesn't offer his help, so Warren decides that he then won't ask for it. Still confused and mouth already opened he wants to know why, as Lester's lungs throw a fit, his body cramping and being thrown forward and then back again by his dry coughs. Warren's up on his feet in a matter of seconds, his heartbeat picking up a fast rate he hasn't feeled in weeks, adrenaline rushing through his veins. He grabs Lester by his shoulders and holds him up, while he coughs coughs coughs. At the end of it there's blood on his chin.

"You're not planing on dying as well, are you?"

The look Lester shoots him, slumped in his chair with other guests on the terrace staring at them in shock, makes Warren's skin crawl.

He hasn't been at an attorney's office ever. It's a weird experience.

The people are nice and calm and so is Mister Allan, who has Steve's testament laying in front of him.

"So, Mister Jones, shall we get started then?"

Warren nods. It still confuses him. He wonders what Steve's mother thought, when she heard that she won't inherit everything. Warren doesn't want money, money won't replace anything.

He must've said that out loud, because Allan chuckles.

"Mister Haines hasn't left you money. No need to worry, Mister Jones."

He leaves the office with a black box tucked safely under his arm. He doesn't open it, not in the office, not on the way out in the elevator, not at home. He tucks it away in his closet, deep down where he keeps a ski puffer, that he never wears anyways.

He finds himself talking to Steve, or what his mind conjurs up of his memories, more often. It helps him, or so he hopes.

He misses him and the soliloquy is a good substitute, at least for now.

They are at a clinic just above the hills and behind the Vinewood sign, far away from the city, the air is dry and crisp nonetheless. Lester sits in a wicker chair, wrapped in a blanket and stares at the fountain in the middle the perfectly trimmed meadow. Warren sits next to him, craving a cigarette, but not lighting one. He'll have to wait a couple more minutes, until the nurse will bring Lester back into the clinic.

"Thank you for stopping by", Crest means it.

"Am I the only one?"

"No, oh no. There's, ehrm, Franklin's coming over too, once or twice a week."

He looks better, rested. Warren doesn't know who Franklin is, but he nods politely anyways.

"That's nice."

"Yeah, he's a good kid." A crook then.

"Are they treating you well up here?"

"It's fine, I- argh, fuck it. The dinner's horrible but the doctor's are good enough. Won't make a difference anyways."

"That's what they're saying then?", Warren looks into the setting sun. From up here Los Santos seems peaceful, quiet, a big, glorious and shining city. It's a hell hole full of shit, Warren knows that now, but he can't leave. Not yet.

"Yeah. No. They don't say it, but they mean it. It's in their eyes." Lester takes a sip of his water.

"Don't say that, Crest."

Lester looks at him. He doesn't say it, but the look on his face says it all. You've been through enough, I won't tell you that I'm dying soon.

"Yeah, well, it was nice seeing you. Getting better and such", Warren gets up, the wicker creaking, his phone in hand and sunglasses back on. They look at each other for a long, quiet moment and then Warren nods, turns around to leave. A surprisingly strong hand grabs his arm.

"I have a project, it's happening right now, Warren."

He stops in his tracks. From somewhere behind the fountain laughter sweeps up the hill. There's an old lady on the meadow with their grandchildren and they're playing ball. She has a bandage around her head.

"A project?", Warren doesn't turn around.

"Yeah, I'd like you to take over. You need something to do."

"I still have a job, Crest."

"That reminds you of him." It's like a kick into his guts and there's sudden rage boiling inside of him, but there's also something else. A certain calmness, that wraps itself around his shoulders like a white blanket. T feels a lot like clarity.

"That it does, yeah."

"I'll have Paige bring you the details."

"Sure. Good night, Crest."

He walks over the little path out of bark mulch, that is overgrown by trees, back to his car. He feels oddly content.

See, life does goes on. It's a weird thought that strikes him out of nowhere. He's afraid of forgetting everything that was, since forgetting always seemed easy. Maybe not tomorrow, maybe not next week but who knows what will be in a year? Maybe he'll catch himself sooner or later, not thinking about Steve for a few weeks, months, years.

He's afraid of that, sincerely so.

The air in the bunker is cold and damp. Some of his people are moving out the old equipment. He doesn't know Crest's newest associate, it's most likely no one from the Hertz/Clifford-Incident.

I'm sorry I called him a buffoon, if I had only known back then.

He thinks of Phoenicia's concerned face and suddendly he finds himself smiling.

"Oh, he was a buffoon, you weren't wrong, Ma'am", he says to himself and hears a quiet chuckle errupting from his chest. There's sadness floading him, but it's warm and sweet and feels like an old friend.

There's no time for tears as the door of the bunker suddendly beeps loudly, informing him of a visitor arriving.

"So, you're getting along, then?", Crest sounds better. Warren lets go a breath, he doesn't even know he held in the first place.

"Yeah. They are quiet, but I appreciate the effort they are putting into it."

"I told you, they're are reliable."

"So you did."

There's a long pause, silence.

"Listen, Crest. I gotta go, speak to you soon."

As he hangs up, he's confronted with his lie, standing alone in his quiet living room.

The next time Lester invites him over, he says yes. He lives in a bigger, cleaner house now and Warren can only guess, that he was indeed involved in the robbery at the Casino his team is trying to solve right now. He'll offer them a false trace. Maybe they'll pick that one up.

"Georgina's not home, you just missed her", Lester wobbles down the stairs to the living room, crutch in hand.

"Who?"

"Georgina, he lives with her", Warren looks up, from where he is securing Lester's arm with his own hand and looks into the face of a young man. He looks younger than himself and wears expensive street style clothing.

"Who are you?"

"That's Franklin, Warren. Franklin, that's the friend I've been telling you about."

"Pleasure", Warren's voice still on the edge, while the man's handshake is firm.

"You lost your man, dog? Lest been telling me."

"I did, eight months ago."

There's something moving behind Franklin's face but he's quick to cover it up. Warren wonders: what and why.

"Shame man, I'm sorry to hear that, homie. My girl left me, too."

"He didn't leave me. He died."

Franklin looks at Lester, confused and a little reproachful, too. Then, it seems to click, as Franklin looks at him again. He now looks a little terrified, actually.

"Franklin was just leaving anways, weren't you?", Crest sits down in a beige armchair. Warren notices that he has new glasses.

"Yeah, shit. I mean of course, I was on my way out. Nice meeting you man, I hope you're, you know, doing better soon. See you around."

"Thank you", Warren recieves an awkward pat on his shoulder and then Franklin's steps distance themselves, until the front door falls shut.

He didn't leave me. He died.

His own words echo in his skull but they don't throw him into a manic tantrum, he's not crying, not screaming. He's oddly calm.

Is this how it feels, when one comes to terms with something, he wonders. Maybe, it is.

He died.

That he did and it must've been fucking ugly. Blood and soupy brain everywhere. Warren wishes he could've held him during these moments, when the body is slowling shutting down, when something mysterious, unknown happens to the human consciousness.

He died.

And Warren had missed him every single day since then. He leans himself against the closed bedroom door of his apartment and then makes his way to his closet.

The box is still where he has left it.

He died. He died. He died.

"I miss you, Steve", he whispers into the silence of his flat and then he smiles, it's small and sad, and he sinks onto the ground, box clutched in his hands, "Fuck, I wish you were still here."

There's silence but Warren likes to think that something of Steve's mind, his soul is still left on this earth, stayed with him. It's a nice thought, even if it's unrealistic. It's still consoling.

Steve's gone for good, but just because his body doesn't walk the dirty streets of LS anymore doesn't mean that he left Warren's life completely - he still existed, left his footprints behind. And Warren's ready, willing even, to take carefully aligned pictures of them and hang them on his wall. He's ready to look at them every day that may come and maybe he'll stop crying at some point. Or maybe he won't. He'll be fine.

It's an odd feeling. His life still feels empty, incomplete since Steve passed and so does Warren. He feels empty, shallow and sad, but it will pass and he will take the time. It doesn't mean forgetting him, quite the contrary maybe.

He flips the lid, puts it aside carefully with a quiet thump on the carpet below. He takes a look inside and bursts out laughing.

"Did he leave you something?", he hasn't seen her in years, since college. She used to be his flat mate.

"Yeah", he smiles to himself.

"What is it?", she looks moved and Warren would love to tell her, but he can't. He really can't. Not all of it, anyways.

"A letter."

"A letter?"

"Yeah, a fucking love letter."

"Warren! Don't say that! It's very heartwarming!"

It's been a year. He still misses him. "He wasn't the type for it, that's all."

He thinks of the envelope he keeps in his safe. It's a document, FIB header and logo, completely official.

Reference: Counter Espionage, Crimes Against National Safety, A Report By Steve Haines to be handed to Misses Phoenicia Rackham In Relation "To Agent 14", Mister Warren Jones

"Oh, was he not, you know, a little a romantic?"

"No, it must've taken a lot for him to write a love letter." It was really sweet and it went well with the attempt to put Warren in a High Security Penitentiary.

"Really?", she looks a little concerned, but she doesn't get Steve, their relationship as it was, like Warren does.

He looks up from his coffee cup and lights a cigarette. He hasn't had a smoke in a long time but at least he stopped with the cocaine.

"Yeah. Sometimes", there's a smile tugging at his lips, "Sometimes I think he would've rather seen me locked away."

#i'm sorry but i had to #my writing #steve/14 tag #steve haines/agent 14 #agent steve haines #agent 14 #gta v #gta online

20 notes · View notes

fallingoverharrypotter · 3 years ago

Text

Torn a New One

This is based on the @drarrymicrofic prompt for pretend, and got very long. Heres the ao3 link :).

The shirt is supposed to make Harry look like that one Bratz doll meme; you know the one.

Thanks for reading <3 <3

Harry is a stoic man. That’s what Hermione calls him.

He’s sitting on Ron’s plush carpeted floors in his shiny new flat. Ron himself is passed out on a couch that costs more galleons than a year of Hermione’s tuition, with Hermione herself teetering on the edge of both her couch and hers and Ron’s refusal to bring up that they’re still fucking on the side of their tumultuous breakup. She brings up Harry’s problems to distract herself, and Harry tells her not to bother. Harry also tells her that she and Ron should just own up to their idiocy and sort their crap out sooner rather than later, and then Hermione yells loud enough to wake Ron with: Harry James Potter, you’re a complete and utter hypocrite. Ron does wake up when their voices raise like this, and then cordons Hermione off to the main bedroom leaving Harry to pretend that he’ll floo home, before the three of them end up eating cereal whilst sitting at/on Ron’s granite countertops the next morning.

All three look a right picture. Hermione is staunchly refusing to acknowledge that she’s wearing a t-shirt of Ron’s – old Canon’s merch that she’s absolutely swimming in. Harry, in solidarity, is also wearing one of Ron’s shirts without pants – the newest Wheezes rollout collection, classic stylized lettering (Ron’s got this beautiful flat because every single Witch and Wizard between the ages of 14 and 37 owns Wheezes now). And Ron himself is shirtless and in nothing but underwear.

They’ve seen more of each other than is completely normal over the last 15 years, but they’re still indulgent enough not to bring up any of the shit they refuse to talk about. They need a balancing force, Harry often thinks, someone who is outrightly honest and refuses the stupid little games that the golden trio fall into to avoid talking about their true feelings. That’s what Harry thinks inside his head, but his body ends up groaning and bending forward so his forehead smacks the countertops none too gently. His consciousness sounds more and more like someone he refuses to think about whenever he’s been drinking. Merlin save him.

“Oi,” Ron admonishes without looking up from his bowl. He’s leaning atop the counter on forearms and staring into his cereal, swirling the spoon around the stodgy mess and eating no longer.

Harry grunts first, and then says “gonna sick up, Ronnykins?” and gets glared at by Hermione who is onto her third bowl of cereal at this point. Right. Can’t joke about Lavender either, apparently. That fling definitely didn’t help the dynamic, Harry reminds himself.

“Jus’ don’t wan’ you bruising my bench with your fat head.”

Harry kicks out at Ron with his closest foot and makes contact, gets an immediate groan for his efforts, before Ron’s pulling up from his slouch and getting Harry into a pretty tight headlock. Harry resorts to elbowing Ron in the gut over and over. Ron groans and releases, making a mad dash for the fancy powder room into which he projectiles.

Hermione, for all she looks dazed and noncommittal this early into a hangover, manages to give off an air of created aloofness about the violent noises coming from down the hall. Harry smirks at her, and gets his own kick in response that makes him exclaim “ow, fuck. You two are so bloody violent.”

Before she responds, there’s a tapping at the window. Owl. Hermione stares at Harry to let him know that there’s no way she’s moving from her lounging for the bloody post, so Harry straightens up to open the window for the tawny. Efficient things these post owls are this morning; just drops the paper on the countertop near Harry’s bowl before flying right out the window without even waiting for a treat.

Harry’s shaking his head to brush away the last fuzz of the evening with the assistance of the scent of fresh air. Hermione gasps out loud. That makes Harry turn around quick enough for whiplash, and then he wishes fervently for death by sustained head trauma when the figure on the front of the paper, unfurled and sepia, winks right at him.

“Fuck,” Harry says. His gut churns, and then he’s running down the hall, past the occupied powder room to Ron’s master bath, and vomits up his guts.

***

Ron’s back in the kitchen by the time that Harry stumbles back in. Three strong cups of tea are quick-brewing under Hermione’s wand, even though both her and Ron’s attention is maintained by the Prophet’s front page. Because that is Draco Malfoy wearing a Wheezes “I shagged Harry Potter and all I got was this stupid shirt” collectable.

“It’s ironic!” Ron and George had insisted on its’ inception 4 years back. Only 100 had been made, a necessity: scarcity is key. They resell for a lot of money these days. Harry would rather die than see another in person. His face, a terrible photo of him caught by photographers during a pretty brutal night out, is plastered right on the middle along with stylized fireworks that go off every couple of minutes. He’d been convinced into making them, to try and control the narrative or whatever bullshit the Weasley’s had spouted just a couple of days beforehand when Harry had started stomping around the burrow or the floor of the joke shop or Hermione and Ron’s old shoebox apartment in anguish. It worked, he guesses, and he doesn’t see many of them anymore, as they’re kept in the strongest of imperturbable charms and modified protegos by anyone lucky enough to get one. But this one. This one he didn’t know about.

Hermione’s been muttering to herself as she read the accompanying story, when her voice perks up. “Merlin, listen to this: ‘this intrepid reporter asked what I’m certain all our readership will be most curious to uncover now that we are sitting down with the one and only Draco Malfoy. When we had sat down in Mr. Malfoy’s beautifully appointed drawing room, I too was especially shocked at his choice of attire,’” Hermione pauses here to roll her eyes and mutter “oh here we go,” before continuing in a higher and haughtier voice. “‘We all know the poise that Mr. Malfoy holds, one of Wizarding Britain’s most darling Stars, his performance in Wizarding Wireless serials having taken our world by storm the past 6 years. I must myself mention the serialisation of the modern take on the Wizarding classic story of Millicent Mimbletonia’s Marvelous Manor; captured this reporter’s heart, it did.’ What a load of absolute nonsense.”

“Oh, come on, Herm,” Ron says and knocks into her arm to get her to continue the story.

“Fine, but this is all absolute tripe. What was Draco thinking! Okay. Blah blah blah, you can’t believe how long this person goes on about Draco’s drawing room, blah. Okay here. ‘On questioning Mr. Malfoy’s choice to wear the now famously collectible Wheezes’ Harry Potter shirt, the gentleman seems to look slightly pensive.’

“‘‘Monsieur,’ our Star addresses me, ‘when you have been in the business of telling stories for as long as I, you start to have a great fondness for truth. I must now admit to you, and all of your lovely readers, that I bought this shirt on release and whilst under Polyjuice’. Now readers, you must bear with Mr. Malfoy here. Yours truly was very shocked-’ Good God, can this man obfuscate. Okay, then Draco says, ‘‘I’ve kept my ownership of such an item close to my chest, and away from my closest relationships. I have found over the years that true mutual affection, friendship, and love, have foundations built on beds of uncertainty and trust simultaneously, and thus I was afraid to expose myself.’ I but in here and ask what we must all be thinking at this admission: is he such a big fan of our Saviour that he is ashamed? But Mr. Malfoy continues: ‘No, monsieur. In all honesty, I am the man’s biggest critic.’’” Harry ducks his head, his hands shaking as he reaches for the now over-brewed tea.

Hermione looks up at Harry and Ron with wide eyes. Ron looks back at her wide eyed too, glancing small looks at Harry every now and again when he finds something particularly salacious, but he says nothing. Harry is hiding his trembling hands and trembling mouth behind a blisteringly hot cup of tea. She receives no objections, and continues. “‘‘I am livid that he’s been out of the public eye for so long regardless of his exceptional ability to bring about change in those around him; Potter has worked the same archival job in the Ministry for 5 years, with no end in sight, I fear. He refuses to allow those outside of his closest friends and family to know him in any sense, and I would argue that this is truly detrimental to his relationship with the Wizarding community. Although I disagree with the man on many things, I will be the first to say here and now that if any person deserves privacy, it is him. But the relationships we build with those we love-’’” and Harry snatches the paper out of Hermione’s hands.

“Harry,” Ron starts, reaching out a hand and grasping his upper arm. Hermione too has hopped down off the counter and is crowding Harry’s other side. He wants to shake them off, but he can’t. He can’t stop looking at the paper in his hands with Draco’s figure. Draco’s white blond head of hair turned beige on paper, his eyes sharp and flirty to readers, his hands restlessly gripping at his shirt. The shirt with Harry’s face.

Harry is a stoic man. Hermione tells him that exactly, Ron tells him that adjacently, and Draco. Draco has said the same thing in so many ways and at so many times that Harry has had it drilled into his head. His eyes are watering now, a little. And he can’t read much more of the article, but he doesn’t really need to. Because Draco will skate around enough of his personal life that it seems as though he’s come clean about something when he’s actually just marketing his next serial; it’s what he does.

This time, though, he’s wearing one of those terrible shirts that almost single-handedly sparked the Wheezes fashion line and bought Ron this apartment, and he’s saying things here that Harry knows are true. Knows are directed right at Harry. Knows because a week ago Harry had walked right out of Draco’s “well-appointed” drawing room, slamming the door and not answering the following owls. Harry hasn’t slept at his own sparse flat for a week. He’s spent time at Ron’s, spent time at Hermione’s, spent time at the Burrow. He’s even spent time in the dark halls of Grimmauld, which he hasn’t wanted to touch for years, no matter how many people around him shared their opinions on it being the perfect. Home. One day.

They’re standing there, the three of them, when a knock sounds on Ron’s front door. Harry freezes, but Ron staggers out into the hallway, still in nothing but underwear.

“Sweet Merlin, Weasley, could you put on some bloody pants? You do know it’s ten o’clock?” Says the visitor, and Harry just lets his back go limp, setting out to truly bruise Ron’s beautiful granite countertops with his forehead once again. He can hear Ron sarcastically mumble something along the lines of ‘yes Malfoy, of course you can come in’. Hermione grips his arm slightly in sympathy, but turns to face the entrance to the kitchen anyway. Like a traitor.

“Hermione, lovely as always. I see the three of you are in similar states of distressed undress this morning. Have you finally succumbed to your polyamorous destiny?”

“Nice to see you too, Draco. Lovely article.”

“Thank you. Do you like the shirt, too? Catches a sweet mint in resale these days.”

“You don’t say…”

“Yes, yes. Now, Harry, please pick yourself up off of the place we civilised people prepare our food.”

Harry groans into the cool surface, but can’t stop himself from responding. It’s a natural reaction to the bullshit that comes out of Draco’s mouth most times. “If you’ve ever made a meal by yourself in your life, I’ll eat the countertop.”

“Harry,” his voice is menacing, and his footsteps are getting closer, “I’m not civilised.” And at that Draco grabs Harry by the shoulder and turns up around and back up against the counter top with not a small amount of force.

Harry’s reply comes out breathless from the impact. “You said ‘we’.”

“It was a universal ‘we’.” Draco says this through gritted teeth. His blond eyebrows are sitting right on top of his grey eyes and they scream murder louder than they’ve ever done before, which is saying something since Draco was once a Death Eater, no matter what the admiring general Wizarding public would like to remember.

Harry doesn’t have a retort prepared, per se. It would be a more concise comment on how Draco hadn’t taken a single English language course his entire life, and what would he know about the universal ‘we’, but Harry meets Draco’s eyes and he’s a bit lost. A week of blanket non-communication. A bit extreme. Not gone longer than a couple of days without talking for years, have they.

“Cuppa, Draco?” That’s from Ron.

“Yes. Two sugars. Level.”

Ron scoffs, but Draco beats him to it. “Weasley it’s two-level sugars, please, for once, reorient your sense of balance before you spill the entire sugar pot into the cup.”

“Just don’t give him any sugar, Ron. He’s obviously already mental, we don’t want him to go into cardiac arrest.” This from Hermione.

“Uh-”

Draco scoffs before Ron can respond. “Settle down Granger. I’m not going to pretend to like black tea for some sense of superiority like some of us.”

“It’s better for your-”

“You know what’s good for your health?” Draco all but yells and spins around to face Ron and Hermione. Ron, still next to naked, and Hermione drowning in Ron’s clothes. She’s back to sitting on the counter, Ron leaning back next to her. They look like they’ve looked for the past 10 years – drawn to each other, allies, et cetera. Draco huffs. “What’s good for your health is you two sitting down and talking about your absolutely bloody insane coupling. What’s good for your health is not getting blackout drunk every Friday night and ending up sleeping with each other, and then not talking about it, until the next week when you can do it again.”

Ron and Hermione are shifting where they sit, Hermione, looking as though she’s getting herself ready to argue back, and Ron in a more protected position behind his ex-girlfriend. Harry feels a little sorry for them, getting the third degree from Draco when he looks as unhinged as he does now. The Harry on his chest, a mess when the photo was taken, is now looking at them disappointedly like he’s on Draco’s side. Like a magical recreation of a Harry who was in quite an intense meltdown at the time has any right to be “on Draco’s side” about any issues of wellbeing.

Hermione does get the strength to pipe up. “Don’t take that tone with us, Draco Malfoy.” But that’s all she can get out. Harry’s pretty sure she’s stumped. Doesn’t have an argument. Draco, Harry knows, has refused to get involved in this situation. Has watched from the side-lines and stewed. Harry’s been all for letting the two of them work their shit out in their own time, but he’s a stoic man, what does he know about all that?

“Don’t take that tone with us, Draco Malfoy,” is Draco’s retort, mocking back in a high-pitched squeak that Harry winces at. Hermione was about to hop off the counter, he could see, but Ron’s sudden arm around her waist kept her down. “You two just have to talk about it. So what if Hermione slept with Lavender? You guys weren’t together at the time!”

Hermione splutters, eyes wide, all thoughts of advancing physically on Draco gone. Ron sat eyes wide too, flicking between Draco and Hermione as if waiting for more.

“Wait-” he starts.

Hermione wails “Ron I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. I know. It was such a bad thing to do-”

“No wait! You’ve been acting weird because of that?” And Ron looks incredulously at Harry. Harry sends him an incredulous look back, equally as surprised that Draco hit the nail on the head.

“What! You knew?” Hermione is still wailing.

Ron turns fully to face her and wails himself: “Of course I knew! How could I not know! Harry told me! Draco told me! Lavender told me! Hell, a month ago you got so drunk you told me.”

Hermione’s eyes are so wide that Harry’s afraid she’s going to start crying, and he grabs Draco’s arm in shock. Draco tenses all of a sudden and then Harry consciously remembers why he’s not doing that and shrinks back again. Ron and Hermione aren’t really focusing on anything but themselves now, so they don’t notice how Draco turns slowly back to face Harry, backed against the kitchen’s island like he has been since Draco arrived.

“And you, Harry Potter.” Draco pauses, and Harry has time to do a quick pass over. Draco on the front page of the Daily Prophet and Draco in the middle of Ron’s stylish London flat are two very different Draco’s. Quiet, pensive, charming and loveable Draco in the papers. Thoughtful. Friendly. A bloody myth.

This Draco. Angry, flustered, dishevelled, loud. This is the same Draco who, when Harry slipped up the other week – the week when everything changed – went red, went silent, went unresponsive in so many ways. Harry, fresh off the first love confession he’d ever given, so incredibly off the cuff that it had shocked him and scared him, had had to storm out of the apartment, slam the doors behind him, and apparate away to his own flat he barely spends any time in.

He’d slipped up. They’d never even suggested anything romantic between the two of them. They’d been close for a long time at this point and. Feelings. His feelings. They were supposed to be unspoken. He’d been nursing the growing beast of his feelings behind his stupid chest, which was okay as long as they were unspoken. Pretending every day that they weren’t eating at him alive.

Eating at him when he woke up in Draco’s spare room on more mornings than he’d liked to count, early enough before work that they could sit for breakfasts in Draco’s kitchen. And then Harry’s co-workers at the Ministry archives asking him questions about Draco’s new shows or his schedule or his favourite foods. Draco and Harry having dinner with Ron and Hermione at hole in the wall restaurants in the muggle world. Birthdays together; dinners at Draco’s or Ron’s nicer flats; bickering over anything and everything they could get their minds on.

“You hate my job.”

Harry’s eyes bulge open. Did he mean to say that? Sweet Merlin. It was definitely him, and now Draco is staring at him in confused consternation, as if he has to come to terms now that Harry’s gone insane.

Harry doubles down, though. Trusts his subconscious decisions. “Yeah, you hate my job!” he repeats.

“Are,” Draco starts, slowly, “you kidding me.”

He could respond, but Harry just shakes his head instead.

Harry’s thought Draco’s been properly angry this whole time. He was wrong. “I hate your job? Who doesn’t hate your job!” Draco’s arms reach out and grab tightly around Harry’s upper arms. Harry’s not above flexing, just a little. He tells himself it’s to test the grip, but honestly, he’s hoping to distract Draco from the rage.

“It’s not that bad!” Harry repeats, and Draco groans loudly.

“Not that bad? Are you trying to give me a stress induced ulcer?”

“What do you know about stress induced ulcers?” comes a faint response from Hermione.

Draco turns his head, hands still tight around Harry’s biceps, and says “don’t you two have make-up sex to attend to?”

Harry responds. “Ron’s sick.”

Draco glares back at Harry for a second, and then turns back to where Ron and Hermione haven’t moved. “Get out, you’re distracting him from the fight.”

“We’re the emotional support,” and “lame fight” come respectively from Hermione and Ron.

“Oh, that’s rich!” Draco yells in their direction, but Harry’s sure that he’s ignoring Ron’s comment. “Emotional support! You two have let this wanker,” a thumb thrown at Harry from over Draco’s shoulder, “probably crash on your couches rather than forcing him to face me. You’re all as bad as each other.”

“Draco,” Harry feels he has to say, and draws Draco’s attention from his two best friends who definitely have been letting him crash on their couches and had not once tried to force Harry to face his problems. He loves them a hell of a lot.

“Don’t you try to lessen this, Harry Potter.” Harry’s been on the receiving edge of worse glares from Draco, so this one isn’t that bad. Harry’s actually feeling a lot better now that Draco is in the same room as him. Feels his terrible, traitorous heart almost relax. “I’m sick of you three. You’re the worst bloody enablers for each other.”

Harry scoffs. Sure, they’d never force him to do something he didn’t want to, but it’s not like they agree with his decisions all the time.

Draco hears the scoff of course, and gives up on trying to chase the others out of the kitchen. He turns around towards the entrance, faces away from all of them and talks to himself at top volume. “This is what my life has become. The sole source of constructive criticism for the bloody Golden Trio.”

Ron snorts to cover up a laugh.

“I survive working for a fascist dictator, successfully rebuild my image, forge a new path for myself in the world, but I’m here. An overworked, under-rewarded, glorified therapist!”

Harry, Hermione, and Ron exchange glances. The other two look at Harry in commiseration, but Harry is starting to think that Draco has a bit of a point when he realises that Ron’s arm is still around Hermione’s waist who is leaning right into his side.

“Okay.” Draco takes a deep breath and turns around to face Harry. “Since they’re not leaving, you all get to hear this.” He steps closer. “I hate your job. I hate your flat. I hate that you won’t face up to hard things, and I refuse to be okay with any of that.”

Harry swallows hard.

“People are letting you get away with anything at the moment, and when you told me you loved me, I got scared. Because I thought that I’d become one of those people to you too.”

“That’s not-”

“No.” Draco stops Harry for butting in. “No. We’re not pretending any longer. I love you-” thump goes Harry’s heart in his chest, eyes bulging and smile unable to be stopped “-but sometimes I seriously don’t like you.”

Harry’s smile does dim at that, but only slightly.

Draco looks away at last, his hands on his hips, and starts pacing. “I couldn’t believe-” sharp glance at Harry through the pacing, “-you just left after you said that. I couldn’t believe you’d actually not answer my owls. You’re an absolute coward sometimes.”

“You didn’t say anything…” Harry mumbles.

“Oh,” Draco responds with an eyeroll, still pacing, “so you get to freak out for a week, but I’m not allowed longer than a couple of minutes to compose myself?”

Harry ducks his eyes, ashamed.

Draco hmphs, and pauses in his pacing to look down his nose at Harry. “That’s right. You should feel bad.”

Shirt-Harry shakes his head at real-Har- “God Draco, take the shirt off!”

“What?” Draco is shocked into pausing his restless movement. “Take my shirt off? You haven’t even apologised and want to get me half naked like the rest of you? I think not!”

“That’s not- ugh, forget this.” Harry reaches forward and grabs Draco mid-pace. “Draco.” Deep breath. Harry meets Draco’s eyes. Draco looks like he’s been through his paces. He doesn’t even look angry anymore, he just looks like the culmination of a week of stress. Ron and Hermione are eating dry cereal right out of the box from their perch as they watch, and they both give Harry nods and a thumbs up in encouragement when his eyes stray to them.

He’s a stoic man: Draco and Hermione are right. He hasn’t had to be brave in a long while. This is a moment that’s worth it though, even if he has to fake it at first.

“I’m sorry.” He has to pause at that, because he can feel the emotions bubbling up a bit too high. He takes a deep breath, and makes sure that Draco’s eyes don’t stray. “You’re… you’re right. About a lot of that-”

Draco buts in with “I’m right about all of it, actua-”

“Shut up, do you want me to get this out?”

Draco concedes.

Harry takes another breath, but the nerves have disappeared in the face of Draco’s unfiltered verve. “I shouldn’t have left. I was-”

“A coward.”

“Draco.”

“…sorry.”

“I was. I was a coward. I was scared. You didn’t respond, which never happens. You’re so good with your words.” He has to take a minute to collect his thoughts, but finds the right thread. “I love you, and have done for a while. I ran because I kind of didn’t mean to say it then. We were already fighting about something, and it just came out, which wasn’t right, and sometimes I’m so afraid that things will change, because you’re my best friend-” “Hey!” “-my best friend and I didn’t want to lose that.”

“You should have said that then.”

Harry closes his eyes. God, feelings are so bloody hard. “Yeah, yeah I know.”

“Oh well, as long as you know.”

“Draco. Shut up.” He swallows. “I like my job.”

“No, you don’t. You come home-” a sharp breath “-you come to mine, I mean. You come to mine after work and you can’t stop complaining. We like our jobs. I’m sure when Hermione finishes her ChP and becomes the Minister she’ll love her job too.” (“It’s a PhD, Draco, I’ve told you a million times.” “Maybe another time, Herm.”)

Harry has to breath deeper, because his blood is pumping a bit too fast in his ears. He drops his hands from Draco and takes a couple of steps back. A retreat. “I think,” and he has to swallow a couple of times before he can force the words out of his throat. He looks up and meets all of their eyes. “I don’t think I can do important things anymore. I. I don’t want to- I.”

“Merlin sakes, Harry.” Draco says. “I think it may be time we force you into therapy.” And Draco just looks impatient. “You can’t keep pretending it’s not a problem, and we can’t keep letting you!”

Harry. Harry nods. He thinks he nods. It’s what he wants to do, but he’s not really looking at anyone anymore, eyes to the ground, heart a bit too fast in his chest for comfort. He wishes that he was still eating soggy cereal in the kitchen before the post arrived this morning. He’s a stoic coward.

Draco seems to take a deep breath, and then he turns around to face the others. “Okay, get up. I’m sick of standing in Weasley’s kitchen.”

Harry takes a pause and looks at Draco’s face. He’s perfectly serious, and so is the Harry on his shirt. Harry’s heart is still racing, but Draco just looks resigned and present. He can’t help himself from smiling a little when his eyes catch on Draco’s. He gets a pretty severe glare in response, before Draco just walks right out of the kitchen and into the living room.

Harry follows, and hears the small grunt from Hermione hitting the ground behind him. Two sets of feet follow his own.

“Don’t forget my tea, Weasley!”

Ron scoffs, but still walks back into the kitchen to make a tea he’d promised about 20 minutes earlier.

Harry sits down on the floor in the same place he sat last night. Draco’s chosen the armchair near the fire; where he usually sits. Hermione stomps over to take the seat on the couch closest to the armchair, and Ron can be heard pottering around the kitchen.

“PhD.”

Draco looks to Hermione with a frown. “What?”

Hermione looks haughty yet contrite. Like she actually can’t help herself from making sure that Draco knows he was wrong, and feels a little bit sorry about it. “It’s a PhD, not a ChP or whatever you called it.”

“Honestly Granger, what does it matter?”

A harrumph from Hermione as she settles back into Ron’s expensive couch cushions. “It’s a very important thing.”

Harry chucks her a grin, and she smiles back proudly.

Draco rolls his eyes. “Why do you all insist on patting yourselves on the back constantly. You don’t see me singing my own praises.”

Ron let’s out a violent laugh from the kitchen, and Draco flushes a little bit, his eyes flicking to Harry who grins at him too.

Mugs float out from the kitchen, Ron trailing behind. Harry grabs his out of the air and cherishes the sent of the strong tea. He can’t help but laugh when Hermione grimaces at the taste of her milkless cup, and Draco looks at her as if he’s won something.

Harry’s won something. He’s won Draco sitting here in Ron’s expensive apartment, Draco rolling his eyes when Hermione chides him about his too sweet tea, then Draco chiding Ron when he argues that Ron made it too sweet anyway, and that if he has to have teeth work done it’ll be Ron’s fault.

“You can make your own tea, you know, you’re not that famous.”

“Actually, Weasley, I’m more famous than all three of you, currently. The only thing getting you through is dumb luck and a gullible consumer base. I get by on pure talent.”

“Sure, Draco.”

“Also, I expect thanks when Wheezes gets the significant boost in sales it’s sure to this week, what with the Prophet this morning.”

“Sure, Draco.”

Harry smiles. His arse will probably start hurting before his mug is drained, and the sounds of arguing will get tiring soon after that. He’s smiling so hard his cheeks hurt a little. He takes a deep breath. “Okay, fine. Therapy. I’ll do it.”

Ron and Hermione smile at him like they knew it was coming all along, pressed up against each other on the expensive couches. Draco just looks at him with a raised eyebrow, waiting for who knows what. Probably an oral manifesto of Harry’s recognised faults and his plans to change them. Harry just smiles right back at Draco, wide and unashamed. Draco shakes his head a little bit, lips pulling up too.

Harry’s worried that if Draco keeps looking at him at all that he’ll have to walk over there and kiss him without warning. He picks his mug up and keeps sipping though, pretends he doesn’t absolutely need to do just that. Because there’s going to be time. Lots of it.

His stoicism has its uses sometimes, maybe.

#drarry #drarry fanfic #harry potter #draco malfoy #ron weasley #hermione granger #harry potter fanfic #god what have i done this is too long #love the idea that ron gets rich by capitalizing on the idiocy of the regular consumer e.g. like Supreme #drarrymicrofic #prompt: pretend #emotionally stunted golden trio #emotionally mature draco malfoy #very sexy dynamic #harry potter fanart #my fanart #my fic

34 notes · View notes

achubbydumpling · 3 years ago

Text

Summer Camp & Fat Camp

Get Beached: A Little Extra

Rating: General Audiences Words: 936 Relationship: Lance Tucker/Steve Rogers Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Summer Camp, Crossover, Weight Gain, Very, very vaguely inspired by Romeo and Juliet if you squint, Non-Serum Steve Rogers, Chubby Lance Tucker

The asthma camp Steve’s mom had convinced him to attend was surprisingly not terrible, almost fun even. Well, apart from Lance fucking Tucker sitting on the side-lines of the running track slurping a milkshake and insulting him.

“You call that running, Rogers? My grandma runs faster than that!”

Read On AO3

“I’m not even supposed to be running.” Even Steve knew that was a weak defence, but his brain was currently working on half-rations what with his stupidly immature high school jock-crush deciding to turn up in the middle of nowhere Texas.

Steve starts coughing before he even makes it halfway around the track. With Tucker needling him, he feels like pushing himself at least until the finish line, but he reluctantly slows to a walk before he actually triggers an attack. So far, his chest just felt itchy and tight, but at least he was still getting enough air to not need his inhaler.

“So, that’s,” Lance obnoxiously slurped his milkshake. “Jeez, Rogers, I think you almost made it halfway around the track. Wouldn’t’ve pecked you for an elite athlete.”

“At least,” another cough. “I have an actual medical condition.” Fuck, he’s embarrassingly wheezy today.

Just a few more steps to where Lance was sitting, pulling out a– fuck, pulling out another burger. His white t-shirt was pulled so tightly across his gut, Steve could see the indentation of his belly button through the fabric.

“Save your breath for walking over.” Lance shouldn’t be hot while talking with his mouth full, but here Steve was fighting the useless fluttering in his stomach. Steve actually shut up before he said anything like that out loud.

Steve sat down on the ground in front of the grubby plastic bench Lance was holding his impromptu picnic at.

“Like I was saying I have a condition, you’re just a glutton.” Steve wished he could wipe that self-satisfied smirk off this idiot’s face.

“A glutton? I’ve heard worse.” And he takes another fucking bite. All his attention on the beige calorie bomb between his fingers.

“I’m just pointing out facts, haven’t even tried to insult you yet.” He had.

“Go on then. Hit me with your best shot.” And Steve went on the offensive, digging up everything that he had wanted to say to Lance Tucker to finally wipe that useless grin off his face.

“You look like an over-stuffed land whale. I’d be surprised if you could get up on those gymnastics bars again even if you wanted to. Once you weren’t the golden boy anymore you filled the void with fast food and booze. You gained thirty pounds in, what, three months? That’s an addictive personality latching onto anything that gives them an ounce of serotonin. All your clothes are two sizes too small and that’s all anyone ever talks about anymore. I’d be surprised if you could even zip that jacket. And you’re just sitting on your fat ass and stuffing a double meal combo down your throat like that’s gonna solve anything.”

“Not hearing any of those scathing insults yet.”

“And you’re probably the kind of pervert that likes it.” Lance’s shit-eating grin morphed into something almost taken-aback.

“Ooh, that’s a new one. Good job, Rogers, but then you’re one too.”

“Excuse me?” Steve could’ve passed for thirteen right there, the way his voice cracked.

Lance leaned back on one hand, wiped his other on his shirt and then raised it to count off, “Thirty pounds? Check. Two sizes too small? Check. Two meal combos? Almost check. I did bring a PB&J to tide me over until they had the food ready.”

“Plus, breakfast at the camp?”

“Gotta keep up the appearance.”

“What appearance? If anything, you’ve gained weight in the past week.” One last desperate stab at Tucker.

“Case in point.” Back on the defensive.

“Well, you didn’t deny it either.”

“What can I say? It turns me on.” Steve must’ve died and gone to heaven.

“How’d you figure that out after following an athlete’s diet since birth?” Lance shrugged, almost bashful, but his obnoxious grin was back in place in seconds.

“The new kid kinda sparked something.” Steve must’ve looked as confused as he felt.

“Complete nerd. Brown hair. Built like a brewery horse.” Continued confusion. “Fat Cavill.”

“Oh, Henry. It’s not very nice to call him that.”

“It’s not very nice—” Lance repeated mockingly, “And it’s still what made you recognize him.” Steve felt heat rising in his cheeks.

“Well, I’m not blind and apparently I like looking at people like him.” His voice got quieter and quieter towards the end. Instead of a rebuttal it just sounded like a confession.

“So, why haven’t you been stalking his lunch order then?” Steve wanted to be swallowed by a deep and dark hole in the ground to repent for his sins.

“I have not been stalking-”

“Two combo meals.” Lance added in a singsong voice while shaking the empty cup in front of Steve’s face. Steve was preparing to insult Lance scathingly when his eyes were drawn to someone powerwalking across the field.

“Holy shit, is that your coach? He’s built like a fucking line-backer.”

“He is one.”

“He looks angry. Are you in trouble for sneaking out?”

“I’d probably get in less trouble if asthma boy snuck in.”

“Is that a proposition?” Steve could actually see Lance’s expression move in the vague direction of anxious, but then his stupid grin once again obscured anything that was remotely human.

“Light’s out is at ten.” Was the last thing he said to Steve before he pushed him back towards the bleachers and motioned for him to hide.

#get beached #Summer Camp #Fat Camp #Weight Gain #Chubby!Lance Tucker

8 notes · View notes

spooky-ghost-boi · 4 years ago

Text

Vacation

Words: 1892

Tom Nook x Reader

Warnings: Feederism, feeder/feedee dynamic, mentions of smut, fatass Tanuki, bad writing because I’m tired and too annoyed to edit this properly.

Description: Tom thinks he has to lose weight but his job doesn’t really do him well so he chooses to take a vacation but ends up coming back fatter and you love it.

A/N: what this shit, tumblr could you possibly be any slower? Mentally I am beyond Spain without an S, so if any Twitter bitches see this. Fight me.

Tom sighed as he sat at his desk at the resident services.

He had been trying out various diets that Isabelle had recommended to him, after trying low-carb and Keto he was trying intermittent fasting and he lost about 5 pounds so far but it was making him extremely hangry most of the time. Considering that Isabelle snacked and ate lunch while being in the same room as him.

It was all alright until that damned Kitsune had the guts to appear at the Island and try to sell some faux painting to the Resident Representative, aka you.

Tom was furious and of course, kicked Redd off the Island but in the heat of his fury he tried to calm himself down but it didn’t work especially since the fucking kitsune teased Tom for his weight, which would’ve been fine, if they were alone but you had to witness that.

As soon as Tom came home he.. Well, let his anger out by binging until he couldn’t move.

He actually liked the feeling of being stuffed but he choose to ignore it although it was quite hard and he realized it was better if he took a break from work to focus on his weight loss.

The reason for his weight loss idea was quite simple; he wanted to impress you, the resident representative, he had a crush on you and told Isabelle who suggested that losing weight could help him in winning your heart.

She couldn’t have been more wrong, but it wasn’t like they both knew your kinks.. Although it was obvious. Haha idiots.

Of course Tom had told Isabelle about his plan and she agreed to do the resident services stuff.

Tom had two months of, well, vacation.

He stayed at his house and the first two days it all went great before he started binging. Constantly. To his dismay he actually enjoyed it. He didn’t know w h y or h o w but he actually disliked that he liked feeling stuffed to the brim.

So the thicc Tanuki visited another island in hopes that it would motivate him to lose weight.

(Spoiler: it didn’t HAHAHA FAT TANUKI)

During his stay at another Island he ended up discovering lots of different foods that made him feel better about the whole Redd situation and since his coping mechanism had always been stress eating he piled on a lot of weight. He was in denial, but that didn’t stop him from trying to rationalize as to why he needed bigger clothes.

Of course you were part of his racing thoughts most of the time and he liked to fantasize about you in several different ways.

So he soon returned home.

His vacation seemed to have ended too fast for him but he also wanted to get back to work so he could see you.

He stepped on the scale the evening before he had to return to work again and was surprised when it had said that he gained 30 pounds in two months, including the 5 pounds he had lost. But that couldn’t be, could it? After pondering about as to why or how he could have gained that much weight over mindlessly eating a box of half a dozen doughnuts and two cheeseburgers. He had come to the conclusion that he was too tired and that the scale must be broken.

After dumping the wrappers into the trash, he held his stuffed gut and walked to his bedroom and got onto his bed which creaked under the weight of the tubby Tanuki. Tom eyed tge stash of mini cakes that he had beside his bed, despite feeling full and heavy he decided to have a few since ‘they couldn’t do much damage, hm?’

He didn’t notice that he dozed off and woke up in the morning, surrounded by wrappers.

Tom sat up and grunted, rubbing his still rather bloated belly that sat in his lap whenever he attempted sitting up. It wasn’t really like he noticed or minded, he didn’t even notice how snug his work shirt was. He noticed the bit of rain and put on his jacket and zipped it up, completely obvious to the belly poking out from under the rain coat.

He just sighed softly, before walking downstairs into the kitchen and having some pancakes with lots of syrup for breakfast. For some reason he felt like this wasn’t exactly enough for him and looked at the clock just to see that it was still early as shit and he had t i m e.

As you can imagine the phat Tanuki had binged to the point of being exhausted by breathing but he did have places to be at so he got up anyway and walked to the resident services.

You were there with the Nooklings and Isabelle, you were excited to see Tom again after the two of you didn’t talk for so long. However nobody told you why he was gone.

Eventually Tom entered the Resident Services and Isabelle was quite surprised.

Timmy and Tommy also were surprised.

You were surprised and horny.

Tom could see the surprise in the faces of everyone. But it also made him horny. Not to mention he was a little surprised and shy to see you there and he was blushing a little.

“Ehm, good morning.” Tom responded, he needed a cigarette or some cake.

Isabelle stayed quiet and you smiled at the Tanuki.

You decided to break the awkward moment and walked towards Tom to give him a hug, because yiu had missed him and you wanted to feel all that chonk pressed against you.

Tom hugged you back instinctively, his big belly did push the two of you a bit apart but it was hot regardless.

“I made you some cake! I thought you would like it.” You said shyly as Tom nodded.

“The thing is, I forgot it at home so if you’d like to come by after work.. You could take it home? I mean.. We could have dinner at my place.” You blurted out the last part, keeping your voice so low you weren’t sure whether he had heard you.

“That’d be splendid, hm.” Tom said, then gently let go of you.

You nodded and the two of you returned to both your respective j o b s.

Tom tried to ignore Isabelle’s comments about his weight, he was sure he lost weight. Which probably was due to his lack of physical awareness.

He had spent his time snacking during work and he comfortably filed out papers and drank his coffee. Some Animals teased him but Tom didn’t really mind, in fact it was almost kinda arousing to him and he didn’t understand why.

Eventually he closed off the shop and got into his car and made his way to your house, he was a little tired and actually quite hungry.

He knocked on your door and you opened it, smiling softly at him as he was a little out of breath.

“Come in! I already made dinner.” You said, then led him to your kitchen.

“You have an eye for interior design, hm?” Tom remarked as he sat on a chair which creaked a little under his weight. He blushed, “oh- uh.”

You noted this and smiled sheepishly at him. “It’s fine! Make yourself comfortable, it’s just you and I afterall..” You said. Maybe it wasn’t the most reassuring thing to say, if you took it out of context it could have been maybe a little weird to say that. Almost sounded like you were trying to fatten up the Tanuki and eat him.. Maybe you were but more like in a sexual way.

(A/N: ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°))

However Tom looked a little more relaxed after you said that.

“Well, how was your day, hm?” Tom asked, as you put some food on his plate.

“It was fine, just the usual things.. I went fishing and helped out some villagers. How about you?” You asked, you had put quite a lot of food onto his plate.

“I’ve had some annoying customers, but that’s just normal.” Tom said, as he ate some of the food you had prepared, “this is really good.” He said.

After a few hours of talking the two of you warmed up to each other and you eventually told him how you felt about him and as a surprise, he felt the same way.

At that point Tom had packed away quite a few plates and snacks, the two of you sat on the couch and you straddled his lap.

He cupped your face and kissed you gently, before you fed him a tray of cupcakes. He obediently ate.

A couple snacks ago his shirt button seemed to have popped off and his sweater vest had exposed around half of his pretty chubby belly.

“You’re fat, I mean this in the most loving way possible.” You said and pinched his love handles.

“I’m just bloated-“ he said, jokingly.

“Sure.” You laughed.

“Alright, maybe I am. Happy? Hm?” Tom said as he unbuttoned his too tight pants and pinned you underneath him.

“You’re definitely fatter than before.” You remarked as you patted his overstuffed belly.

“Mhm.. You like it as much as I like it. Am I right?” He smirked.

Anyways it was a very delightful evening for the both of you and I ain’t gonna write smut because that’d be awkward as shit so just imagine it, aight?

Two ‘fucking’ months later.

You woke up next to Tom, who was still asleep and snoring quite loudly.

He had been eating quite well the past two months making him look pretty chubby, he was waddling now most of the time and his belly was s o f t^2.

You walked downstairs and made him some breakfast.

It didn’t take long for him to wake up because he smelled delicious food, he sighed and waddled his way downstairs and sat on a chair. “Good morning.” He said, smiling a little despite looking still pretty tired.

“Good morning! How’d you sleep?” You asked.

“Pretty well.. Well, until I woke up because I’m starving. I wouldn’t know what I’d do without you, dear.” He said.

“Starve.” You said jokingly. “You have quite the big appetite, I give you that.” You said as you placed a stack of waffles.

“Mhm..” He yawned and ate his breakfast, “I’m still.. So tired, feed it to me? Hm?”

You couldn’t tell whether this was a suggestion or order from him, but you wouldn’t be Y/N if you turned down feeding the lazy Tanuki.

You nodded and fed him, you would straddle his lap.. If you could. Tom’s belly was taking up most of it and he didn’t mind.

He ate all of it and sighed when he felt your hands rub his bloated big belly.

Eventually the two of you got ready for work and he waddled to his car, tried to wiggle into the drivers seat which didn’t work out as his tummy was in the way of the wheel.

“Need help?” You asked.

“I would appreciate it, yes yes!” He blushed as he moved to the passenger seat and you drove the car to the Resident Services.

You had gone to work for the day.

#idk what tags to add #chubby tom nook #fat tom nook #chubby tom nook x reader #weight gain fic #Bad writing alert

30 notes · View notes

gainerstories · 5 years ago

Text

Lifeguard Off Duty: Epilogue

Bradley washed his hands in the bathroom and examined his imposing frame. There was no denying it: he had gone soft from working an office job. And not just a little soft, almost 200 pounds of fat soft. Looking at himself in the mirror, he could barely remember the ultra fit lifeguard who started at city hall all those years ago.

As he absorbed the image before him, he appreciated how the fabric of his tucked in plaid button up was completely filled with his rounded out belly, but not so tight that the buttons strained. It had taken him a few months of squeezing into outgrown clothes, seams tearing, and holes forming in the crotch of his pants before he finally learned how to dress for his size. Now, he felt confidence in the way his suspenders framed his shapely and prominent gut. His size was not something to hide, but to wear with pride. He avoided the oversized and misshapen clothes that so many larger men wore, preferring pants that hugged his rounded ass cheeks and wide thighs and shirts that cupped his distended belly.

With shoulders back and hips forward to accommodate his girth, Bradley swaggered out of the bathroom and towards the cafeteria with all the confidence in the world. After four years climbing the ladder at city hall and one long election cycle, Bradley was now the Mayor of Adipol. He grabbed a cinnamon roll, the kind Peter used to sell to him, and poured a cup of coffee while reciting his speech in his head. Later that afternoon he was to cut the ribbon at the unveiling of a new beach in town.

Abundance Beach had been overrun with trash and pollutants for decades, but after a year of intensive clean up and restoration under Bradley’s leadership it was now sparkling clean. The cleanup was a boon for real estate around the beach and a small commercial sector was beginning to spring forth nearby, including a third location for Muffin Tops.

Bradley gobbled up his cinnamon roll and ordered a foot long sub sandwich, bread bowl of chili, and potato chips that he brought back to his office. He needed to fuel up before waddling out to the beach front. Tucked behind his desk in his reinforced office chair, Bradley unfolded a napkin and tucked it into the collar of his shirt. These days, this was the only way for him to pig out in public without getting his shirt covered in food stains. He also cracked a beer he kept in the mini fridge of his office. A little alcohol always helped loosen him up before public speaking engagements.

Eventually the food was gone and his tank was so full that it felt noticeably heavier resting in his lap. Leaning back, he took a photo of his bloated belly on his laptop and sent it to Peter who encouraged him to drink one more beer to top it off. Bradley chuckled when he saw the message, chugged an IPA, stood up, and waddled to his car.

He arrived at the beach early but even still a crowd had formed before the ribbon. As mayor, he was dressed professionally in long sleeves and pants despite the fact it was the dead of summer. As a result he began to sweat almost immediately upon leaving his air conditioned car. Standing before the ribbon he looked into the faces of the eager children and young parents before him. Behind him stood Peter, a variety of local business owners, and staff from city hall.

Bradley delivered his short speech and was presented with a pair of giant scissors by his treasurer. Dramatically he snipped the red ribbon and everyone cheered before heading down to the water. Back in the parking lot, drinks were served at a makeshift bar and several shop owners had set up booths peddling their wares and foods. Avoiding the sand and discovering that Peter had disappeared, Bradley headed towards the bar.

“Bradley Parker! I am just so proud whenever I see your face!” Wanda exclaimed and rushed over to wrap her arms around Bradley in a big bear hug.

Bradley chuckled, “Always a pleasure to see you Wanda.”

“It has been so great to watch your growth all these years. From a mere coordinator to Mayor in record time! I can still remember your first day. You were a nervous little waif trying so hard to do your best. And now look: large and in charge! My god I’d never guess that you were such a big eater when you started. And I see that that cushy mayor’s office has been treating you particularly well,” Wanda winked and pinched Bradley’s overhang.

“You know me too well, Wanda. Now if you’ll excuse me I’m gonna grab a beer and make the rounds.”

“Oh of course, Mr. Mayor. Sorry to take your time. It was great seeing you.”

At the bar Bradley ran into Eric and his boyfriend who were wearing nothing but their swimsuits. Bradley couldn’t tell if the two men had indeed grown fatter since he last saw them, or if he never realized they were this fat until he saw them shirtless. Eric held a tall blended cocktail that matched the color of the bright red stretch marks on his lower belly. Meanwhile, his boyfriend leaned the upper half of his belly and moobs against the bar while ordering. From behind, he was just a series of rolls squeezed into swim trunks.

“Look at you at you Mayor Bradley! Large and in charge as always I see,” Eric chimed.

“Eric! So nice to see you,” Bradley said while motioning to the bartender that he’d like a beer. “How has it been back at the office? I miss you guys.”

“Same ‘ol same ‘ol, you know how it is. Nothing too exciting. I will say we’ve made use of your bill expanding funding. We’ve been doing team outings once a quarter and have Muffin Tops catered every Monday morning.”

“That sounds fantastic! You’re making me jealous I’m not there anymore.”

“It’s been nice! Although I think the bakery has been taking a toll on the old waistline,” Eric slapped his overhang. “I’ve put on about thirty pounds this year alone.”

“Tell me about it. Once I started at city hall this thing hasn’t stopped growing. I’m leaning into it, though, and I’ll tell you what Eric- it looks good on you!” Bradley slapped Eric’s belly in the same spot, leaving a momentary handprint.

Eric blushed and replied, “Mr. Mayor,” coquettishly.

“Say, where’s Malcolm?” Bradley mentioned.

“Well, speaking of packing it on!” Eric began. “Malcolm just fucking ballooned, like I mean huge, like massive. We had to order him a specialty office chair that was wide set and could support up to 600 pounds because he broke the other one. You’d think that would be a wake up call but that did not slow him down. He’s currently at a six month fat camp up north. He had to have been like, I don’t know, pushing 500 pounds when he left. Like, unrecognizable. Real wake up call for the rest of us fatties... not that I’ve lost any weight recently.”

“Wow, I guess I shouldn’t be surprised to hear that, but I am. Glad he’s doing what’s best for him,” Bradley responded as Eric’s boyfriend joined with his fruity cocktail. “Well I’ll let you boys hit the beach while I search for Peter. He should be hiding somewhere. He doesn’t enjoy the spotlight.”

“Well it was great seeing you Bradley. You’re a great leader,” Eric said and wobbled towards the beach.

With his beer in hand, Bradley wandered through the crowd looking for Peter. The dark asphalt coupled with the increasingly dense crowd was creating a heat bubble around the parking lot that had Bradley sweating bullets. He was sure that the T-shirt underneath his button up was completely soaked with sweat and feared it would begin soaking through his outer layer. He could even feel beads of sweat drip from his fat pad, around his junk, and down his leg.

“Mayor Parker!” exclaimed a gushing female voice vaguely recognizable to Bradley.

He turned around to see Diane, the new hire who hit on him constantly before he ran for Mayor. She stood with her arm linked to a man that was nearly, but not quite, as fat as Bradley. Without invitation Diane wrapped her free arm around Bradley’s back in a hug, giving his love handle a sneaky squeeze, and causing his lower back sweat to finally pervade his button up.

“Diane, how nice to see you,” Bradley responded flatly while awkwardly sustaining her unwanted advances.

“And this is Christian,” Diane said, “you remember him? He was your replacement, also a former lifeguard.”

Bradley stared at the hulking man before him. The Christian who was his replacement was lean and muscular. It didn’t seem possible that someone almost as big as Bradley himself could have gained all that weight in such a short amount of time. Bradley shook Christian’s hand and made small talk with the couple, all the while contemplating what a massive eater Christian must be to have ballooned like that. Then it hit him: Diane was clearly a feeder and Christian’s gains were no accident.

Eventually, Bradley excused himself and tried to squeeze away through the crowded parking lot. Finally, he laid eyes on Peter who was drinking a beer in the corner by himself. The couple embraced and held a long kiss. As they stepped away Bradley heard someone say his name from behind.

“Mayor Bradley Parker! Large and in charge I see!”

Bradley turned around and accidentally smashed his belly into Diego’s own rotund gut.

“Why does everyone keep saying that?” Bradley said.

“Well look at you!” Diego replied. “Your belly just knocked mine. I mean sheesh, look at this thing- you’re starting to make me look petite!”

Diego and Hayden each wore shorts and a loosely draped Hawaiian print button up that subtly rested on their curves. Diego’s was unbuttoned half way down revealing his massive hairy pecs, and tucked in to display the fullness of his girth. Hayden on the other hand left his untucked, occasionally flashing a glimpse of belly.

The two couples had become somewhat close in recent months, as Diego was routinely at city hall as he expanded Muffin Tops into a chain and began filing the paperwork to start franchising. In the last few years their original location expanded to serve bread and savory pastries, Diego bought out Thick Treats and converted it into a Muffin Tops, and everything was now in place to open their third location at Abundance Beach in just a few days.

In the midst of conversation, Diego invited Bradley and Peter to the new bakery nearby. The walk there was not far, but pushed Bradley over the edge. By the time they arrived his clothes were drenched in sweat and he was wiping his brow dry.

“Why don’t you take those stuffy clothes off?” Diego suggested. “We’re all friends here, no need to be overly professional Mr. Mayor.”

Bradley removed his outer layer so he was only wearing a white tee that was now see through from the sweat and rode up to just below his belly button. He sat on a nearby table while Diego expressed surprise that Bradley was now definitely the biggest man in the room. From a distance, the sound of squeaky wheels turning approached. Bradley looked over to see Jeremy emerging from the kitchen pushing a three tiered cake.

“We wanted to congratulate you on the new beach!” Hayden exclaimed. “You’ve been so great to all of us and this town so we made your favorite chocolate cake.”

The room clapped and Jeremy began to cut the cake. Bradley had to do a double take upon seeing Jeremy close up. Not only was he much tanner, but Bradley’s former gym bud now had a serious gut hanging off of him. Bradley knew that he’d moved in with Diego and Hayden but he could of sworn he saw Jeremy in the gym looking fit as ever a few months ago. Flabbergasted, Peter broke the silence on the subject.

“Jeremy, you look different…” Peter said suggestively.

“Are you talking about this thing?” Jeremy pushed his hips forward and grabbed his belly with both hands, giving it a proud shake. “I took a two month vacation of unbridled hedonism in the Italian countryside.”

“Did wonders, I’d say!” grinned Diego.

Jeremy served each of the men massive hunks of cakes and simply placed the entirety of the top tier on Bradley’s plate. Before digging in, they popped a bottle of champagne and cheersed.

“To Bradley, our dear friend, Mayor, and loyal customer of Muffin Tops,” Diego said.

“And to you guys,” Bradley responded, “My dear friends, my lovely encouraging partner, and… to Jeremy’s new pot belly!”

The five men stepped closer to clink glasses, causing their bellies to softly squish into one another.

This is a co-authored story by gainerstories and gainingfiction.

This chapter is written by gainerstories.

#lifeguard

218 notes · View notes

theslashmix · 4 years ago

Text

I didn’t merely see

https://archiveofourown.org/works/31545329

Written for the LLSS prompt “ Harry Welsh isn't as oblivious as everybody thinks he is. (ft. Winnix and/or Speirton not being that subtle after all)"

beta-read by @thrillingdetectivetales

will publish a translation/ rework of it in Italian

For some reason, people seemed to forget that Harry was an observant man. He was an officer, and in his modest opinion, a decent one. This meant that he must have a good eye for detail and an even better brain to put things together in a coherent manner: it thus surprised him a bit that people seemed to stop at his jovial façade, somehow separating it from the competence that he had shown on the battlefield. It was almost as if there were two of him- good ol’ Harry, always down for drinks and shenanigans, and First Lieutenant Harry Welsh.

He had known that Winters and Nixon were a thing since Toccoa, and had guessed that they had been for a while before that- since OCS, probably. The signs were all there, almost painfully too easy to spot for someone who truly watched, instead of just seeing: the little touches that lingered just a second too long; the brief stretches of time when no one seemed to know where they were; the constant invasion of each other’s personal space that wasn’t an invasion at all, because at some point it had gotten from being my personal space, to you’re welcome in it, and it was slowly morphing into our personal space under Harry’s very eyes.

He had wondered why on Earth Sobel hadn’t picked up on it, what with him hating Winters’ guts and desperately trying to find even the smallest fault in the man. After some more careful observation, Harry had come to the conclusion that it wasn’t so surprising after all, because Sobel, consciously or not, didn’t want to see it. It was glaringly obvious that Sobel was very good at lying to himself, and him hating Winters was a big, fat lie. He was not good enough at lying to himself that he would try to destroy Winters with that particular tactic, though.

When Sobel was removed from Easy, Harry drew a big sigh of relief.

It had made him uneasy, back then. It was hard to reconcile the stereotype of fairies he had in his head with the reality of how the two officers were. They should have been effeminate, weak, hysterical: they weren’t. Winters was everything that the high brass could want in an officer and a soldier, and Nixon, despite his flaws, was a good man, and a good intelligence officer. Harry wondered for long hours whether he ought to report them: a lifetime of conditioning was hard to shake. In the end he didn’t: D-Day arrived too quickly, and he had other things to think about rather than trying to convince a court martial that Dick Winters and Lewis Nixon were a homosexual couple. Especially since he had nothing more substantial than a lame “well, they are often together” and his own impressions.

After Normandy, Harry actively decided that he would do nothing about it, even if he didn’t approve. After Normandy, the boys would follow the two officers just about anywhere, and Harry couldn’t in good conscience take them from Easy, because that would mean that more of the boys would die in the incompetent hands of Norman Dyke.

After Bastogne and Foy, after Nixon had decided to stay in that freezing hellhole with them (and with Winters) instead of taking the much sought-after furlough stateside, Harry decided that he would actively cover for them, if that was what it would take to keep Dick and Nix with them. He decided that it was completely wrong that the world had decreed that the two of them shouldn’t stay together, because after the long scrutiny Harry had imposed on them, there was only one conclusion possible: the two fit so well together that God must have made them to be together. Their relationship evolved to its full potential in a way that shouldn’t have been possible, if what was between them was just sinful lust.

Now it had fully become our personal space, and the two could hold an entire conversation in just a single, prolonged stare, like an old married couple. Even the boys seemed to be always talking about them as a package deal. “Winters and Nixon said that…”, “Yesterday Winters and Nixon…”, “Do you think that Winters and Nixon will…?”, “Where are Winters and Nixon?”

There could be no doubt whatsoever that Nix belonged with Dick and Dick belonged with Nix, the same way that Harry himself belonged with his beloved Kitty.

He noticed the signs of the very same thing going on between Speirs and Lip in Haguenau. It was nowhere near as long standing as Dick and Nix’s relationship. If he had to pinpoint its starting moment, Harry would have guessed around Bastogne, at the earliest. Probably when Speirs had stopped going to Dyke for updates on Easy and had started to go directly to Lip. There was still a tentativeness around them, the sweet, hesitating exultance of discovering each other, the pressing need to be together and close as much as possible.

It was in the way Lip perked up as soon as he heard Speirs’ steps, and in the way Speirs’ eyes kept turning in the direction of the house where a sick Carwood Lipton was billeted with a worried frown, as if the lieutenant was magnetic north and the captain was the hand of a compass. It was in the way Lip murmured Speirs’ Christian name when they thought that nobody was there to hear them, and in the way Speirs had claimed the right to take care of Lip as if it was his God-given privilege, and woe betide whoever dared to interfere.

He hadn’t known the true depth of it though, not until one evening in Haguenau when he had decided to go and visit Lip in his billet. The lieutenant had healed from pneumonia in a way that Roe had defined “miraculous”, but was still quite weak and needed rest. Harry hoped that a Hershey bar would lift his spirits a bit, and distract him from his desperate need to mother everything and anything that breathed. They should probably have him infiltrate the German troops, he’d have them tucked up in bed by 2100 sharp, and no sneaking out to invade Poland, is that clear Adolf?

Harry walked softly, making no noise in case Lip was asleep. As he got close to the flimsy door, he realised that Lip wasn’t asleep, and was in fact talking with none other than Speirs.

“- if you die, what good would you be to the boys?” Speirs was saying, with an exasperated tone that indicated that they had had this discussion a few times already.

“There’s no other second lieutenant, Ron. If I don’t take care of my duties, nobody else will, and the boys will go without supplies.”

“Car- you seriously think so little of the other officers that we’d let Easy starve?” There was an obvious subtext there- do you think so little of me?

“No!” Lip’s exclamation was scandalized and filled with frustration. “No, I don’t. But you all have so much to do already. You shouldn’t be doing my job on top of yours.”

“You’re talking as if you were purposefully slacking, Car. You aren’t. You are sick, you didn’t want this, and nobody thinks any less of you because of it.” Speirs’ tone was getting increasingly frustrated.

“But I can’t-”

“No, I can’t, Car!” Speirs’ voice rose a little before the captain brought it back down. “I can’t stand the thought of you grinding yourself to the nub. I’m scared, Car, for the first time I’m truly scared in this goddamn war because I’ve got something to lose,” he said, and Harry was surprised to hear him admit such a thing. Hearing Captain Ronald “Killer” Speirs so vulnerable, admitting to his fear so openly with a voice raw with emotion, was something Harry had never even dreamed could happen, not in a million years. It must have cost him a lot to admit it.

“It’s hard enough that I have to send you into action knowing that you could die, but I can accept that because it’s out of our control. I can’t accept the thought of losing you to a pneumonia relapse, not when it can be avoided by you simply resting a bit!” Harry had never heard Speirs talk so passionately.

There was a rustle of cloth, and a muffled sob- they had probably embraced, seeking the comfort of touch and closeness in the very real solidity of each other’s body.

“Please, Car. Please. Do your best to live- I just can’t bear it,” murmured Speirs.

There could be no doubt left that the love between them was the real deal and not something wrong or twisted, not after hearing the pain in Speirs’ voice at the thought of losing his lover. It couldn’t be wrong, not when it could give back humanity to a man like Ronald Speirs, giving him something not only to die for, but to live for, which was much, much more important.

“Oh, Ron…” said Lip in a voice that was heartbreakingly tender, and Harry decided that it was time to go. He suddenly felt ashamed, as dirty as if he had spied on them having sex- no, not having sex, he amended. They would make love. He shouldn’t have eavesdropped. It had been a moment of deep intimacy between the two men, not only of the body but of the soul, and he couldn’t bear to spy on something so pure for a moment longer. Even though he had to admit that he was glad to know that there was something that had remained pure and unsullied despite the war.

It was a week later or so, when he heard Luz talking about how quickly Lip had bounced back from pneumonia.

“Couldn’t bear the thought of us boys being without their Mama Lip, especially now that he’s got Papa Speirs to take care of him,” he said wisely, and his audience nodded solemnly, unanimously agreeing that Lip and Speirs were a package deal as much as Dick and Nix were.

He knew then, with certainty, that Speirs and Lip belonged to each other the same way Nixon and Winters did.

Of all the things he had expected to change during the war, his perspective on homosexuality hadn’t been one, but he solidly counted it among the few, positive things to come out of that particular bloodbath. When Dick announced at the end of the war that he had decided to accept the job offer at Nixon Nitration, and Speirs that he would go to West Virginia “to see what opportunities I can find there,” Harry felt happy for them.

They belonged together, and they would stay together. Maybe there was some justice, in this world.

#hbowar #speirton #winnix #harry welsh #band of brothers #slash #ronald speirs/carwood lipton #richard winters/lewis nixon #ronald speirs #carwood lipton #richard winters #lewis nixon #sobel/winters but it's beyond one sided

7 notes · View notes

hyperpsychomaniac · 4 years ago

Text

Who Says You Can't Go Home - Chapter 2

Darkwing Duck (90s series) fanfiction

Sequel to my recent fanfic The Other Side of Me

Summary: Down on his luck, the Negaverse Launchpad crashes at Launchpad’s parents looking for help. Launchpad, who has avoided visiting his family since he started working with Darkwing, returns in a panic to ensure his double isn’t causing trouble. And then it gets awkward.

Read Chapter 1 first

***

Doing nothing but sitting in the roadside diner, situated on the road leading up to his hometown, made Launchpad want to squirm. Someone was going to come in and recognise him. There was no one here he wanted to talk to – apart from his parents. To top it all off they were wasting time. The Thunderquack was parked a few miles away, out in the desert, where it wouldn’t be found. It was close enough they could call it if needed. Drake had driven the sedan the rest of the way in. After Launchpad had tried to rouse him from sleep. And after Drake had said he wasn’t moving until the sun came up.

Then Drake had insisted they stop for breakfast. “If we tear in there,” he’d said. “Your parents are going to wonder how we drove here so quickly. Just relax. A couple of hours won’t make a difference. I need coffee; my sleep schedule is way out.”

Not that coffee had been a bad idea. On his third cup, Launchpad was finally starting to feel the effects. He’d managed to grab a nap whilst he waited for DW to wake up and then again as he’d driven into town, but the caffeine, now that was really doing the job. Being a bit more awake didn’t make him any less apprehensive about waiting though.

“Launchpad, you haven’t touched your breakfast,” said Gosalyn. “It weirds me out when you don’t eat your food.”

Launchpad prodded a short fat sausage around his plate half-heartedly.

“Yeah, I think you need to level out the caffeine, buddy.”

“Huh?”

Drake pointed to Launchpad’s leg, which bounced up and down under the table.

Gosalyn snorted. “Yeah, better eat something before the diner thinks a T-Rex is coming. Rar.”

Launchpad forced his leg to still. Why did this whole thing make him so nervous? But he couldn’t even explain what he was doing with his life over the phone. In person? He wasn’t sure whether he’d rather his parents realised he was hiding something or thought him a failure and a deadbeat. He’d wanted to come visit. And that was the worst part. He’d wanted to, but still hadn’t made the effort. They made it difficult, and DW made it difficult, and he’d wanted to find some way to make it work but it had always been impossible to broach the subject. Either with DW, or his parents. Now, he was here and he wasn’t ready. But still, helping his parents with whatever trouble the Negaverse Launchpad had caused was plenty good enough reason to put up with all the stress. He could deal.

The bell above the diner’s door dinged. Launchpad cringed down in his seat just in case it was someone who might recognise him.

A young woman entered. She was decked out all in bright pink, inclusive of her armoured motorcycle jacket. She removed a hot pink helmet and shook out her hair, then looked inside the helmet, sniffed, and made a face. “Bleh. I hate long rides.”

Launchpad shot to his feet. “Loopey!”

His little sister, not so little anymore, turned at the sound of his voice. “Ee! Launchpad!” She pelted across the diner. They met in the middle of the floor and Loopey threw her arms around her brother’s neck. “Mom and Dad didn’t tell me you were coming too.”

“Short notice,” Launchpad mumbled into her hair. Even with the definite smell of motorcycle helmet he caught the scent of her cherry blossom shampoo. He’d always thought of it as what pink should smell like. He squeezed her tight for good measure then set her back down on the floor. “Wait, coming too? Mom and Dad invited you? Now?” Surely, they didn’t want his kid sister’s help with some weirdo from another dimension.

“Yeah, they’ve been bugging me to come visit for the last month of two. But you never seem to come when they invite us so I just assumed…” She shrugged. Then slapped him on the shoulder. “But this is going to be so much fun! We can go out flying together. There’s this real neat place I can bet you haven’t flown yet and I’ve got to show it to you.”

Gosalyn stepped around Launchpad’s hip and looked Loopey up and down with a frown. “Launchpad, is this your girlfriend?”

Loopey grinned. “Ew. No. This stinky weirdo? I’m his sister, Loopey.”

Gosalyn’s face brightened. “He is stinky, isn’t he?” She stuck out a hand. “I’m Gosalyn Mallard. Pleased to meet you.”

“This is Drake, my housemate,” Launchpad said, as DW wandered over to the join them. Better make things clear before Loopey got any ideas into her head like his mother seemed to.

“You didn’t tell me you had a sister.”

“You’ve never asked me about my sister.”

“LP, how can I ask you about someone I don’t know exists?” Drake cut himself off with a huff. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“Likewise. I’m going to grab a bagel and a coffee then head to Mom and Dad’s. If you don’t mind waiting we can arrive together. I think they’d like that. And, you know, if you want some extra backup. Though I see you made sure to bring some.” Loopey winked.

Well, he had already resigned himself to waiting, what was another few minutes? Launchpad retrieved his coffee then trailed Loopey up to the counter. He waited while she ordered her breakfast then reached out and brushed her sleeve. “Hey, did Mom and Dad tell you they had someone visiting?”

“Yeah, they said it was someone you knew. But they didn’t give me much details beyond that.” Loopey studied his face for a moment. “Okay, big bro. You going to tell me what’s going on? We’ve got a guy visiting whose name is also Launchpad, which is weird, especially because there aren’t too many families who give their kids aviation themed names. And you look like you’re a thousand feet up and just remembered you forgot to fill the fuel tank. What, is he like your evil twin or something?”

Launchpad pushed his nearly empty coffee cup around the counter. His hand trembled against the white ceramic. Which was totally from the excess caffeine on an empty stomach. “Not quite. More like my severely messed up and slightly dangerous twin.”

“Mom and Dad never said we had another brother.”

“Not like that. It’s like, well, the entire universe has a twin. It’s complicated, and I’ll try and explain it to you, or maybe get Drake to. He’s better at it.” And smart enough to make it sound plausible whilst leaving out all the Darkwing stuff. “But I came back because I was worried about Mom and Dad. I just want to make sure he isn’t causing them any trouble.”

Loopey put an arm around his shoulder. “Well then. You’ll definitely want me for back up, huh?”

***

Launchpad let Drake drive again. He was still tired and he could feel his hands trembling. Stupid caffeine. The grass and gardens greened as they pulled up outside his parents’ house, to that little circle of garden that everyone who lived on a large property out here had decided was an acceptable radius to maintain. The house itself was low-set, with a big wrap around porch. It was a strange mix of nostalgia and pure dread that sat in the bottom of Launchpad’s gut.

Beside them, Loopey’s motorcycle rumbled to a stop. Gosalyn stared longingly at the machine. “Would’ve been funner on a motorcycle.” She was pouting because Drake hadn’t let her ride with Loopey. Which apparently she should’ve been allowed because she rode a far more powerful bike all the time. Drake had pointed out that was with her own helmet and Loopey had only brought one.

With any luck, the Negaverse Launchpad would just need a good talking to and DW wouldn’t need to get involved at all. Launchpad drew in a breath, steadied his hands, and got out of the car.

The front door slammed and their mother came barrelling off the front porch. “Launchpad! Loopey! You’re both here!”

“Mom!” Loopey saved him from the embarrassment of the first hug. She pelted past him and threw her arms around Birdie McQuack.

“Hey, sweetheart. Launchpad…” Still clinging to Loopey, Birdie reached out a hand towards her son.

Launchpad felt a smile tug at his lips. “Hi, Mom.” He wrapped his arms right around the both of them. Then introduced her to Drake and Gosalyn.

“You are both welcome here anytime. Any friend of my son,” Birdie said with a knowing wink, “is like a son to me.”

Launchpad flushed. “Mom.” He had to forget the awkwardness. There were other things to deal with. “Where’s the other Launchpad? What’s he gone and done? If you need me to talk to him, or move him on out of here just let me know and…”

Birdie put her hands on her hips. “Now, Launchpad. That poor man needs help. Not to be tossed out in the cold. I think he’s still dealing with a lot of things. He seems to be getting better this last month of so, but…”

“Wait, last month? How long has he been here? I… I thought…”

Birdie bit her lip and, suddenly, she didn’t seem to want to look her son in the eye. “Um, well… it’s probably been about… two months now?”

“Mom! I thought… well, so he was okay, and then he’s done something just now like…”

Birdie shook her head. “I told your father this was a bad idea. No, he hasn’t done anything. Well, just minor things. Like mess with my rosebushes. I don’t know what got into his head but I gave him a firm talking to and he seemed to get the message.”

Launchpad’s fists tightened. “You said on the phone he was making you uncomfortable. If he hasn’t actually done anything why’d you call me out here?” Not that he didn’t want to grab the other Launchpad by the collar and demand to know what he’d been thinking. But he’d been worried! He’d been stressed the whole flight here.

“You know, I really do think he could use your help again. He couldn’t stop talking about what you did for him back in Saint Canard. I feel like your father and I have done all we can for him. But that’s only part of the reason we wanted you here. The other, well, it was mostly your father’s idea…” She trailed off and lowered her gaze.

“Mom,” prompted Loopey. “I thought you told me you just wanted us all back here to spend some time together and all you had to do was convince Launchpad and…”

The gears ground and grated into place in Launchpad’s head. Far too slowly. How could he be such an idiot? “Convince Launchpad,” he said, coldly. “You mean by lying to him and telling him you were worried his potentially dangerous double might do something to hurt you?”

Drake put a hand on his arm. “Okay, LP,” he said, voice low, and a cheesy fake grin on his face like he was trying to convince everyone else that it was, in fact, definitely still okay. “We’ve been here like five minutes. Cool down. Give your parents a chance to explain, and maybe, you know, maybe it won’t be as bad as you think.”

Launchpad fists unclenched a little and he forced himself to breathe. His mother opened her mouth to say something, but then the growl of an engine cut into the morning air. It wasn’t a plane. A heavily laden down Gator buggy - twin seater, offroad with rollover bar - struggled over the crest of the small hill leading up to the house. The struggling engine let up as it made its way down the gentle slope towards them and grumbled to a halt.

“Okay, buddy, if we both go for the seatbelt at the same time we are never going to get out of this thing.”

“Hang on, Mr McQuack. I’ll get yours first.”

Ripcord McQuack and the Negaverse Launchpad were both crammed into the Gator. It was designed for two people but they were clearly pushing it to its load limit. Launchpad stuffed his fingers down between their legs to find the seatbelt release.

“Ow!” Ripcord just about rolled out of the driver’s seat. He rubbed at the side of his leg. “If you insist on wearing those things could you at least file the blasted spikes down?”

Launchpad’s double pushed the studded bracelet around his wrist self consciously. “Sorry.”

Launchpad swallowed and his hand went to his beak. Gosalyn had patched him up good and those wicked looking spikes hadn’t left any permanent marks. But it was hard to forget the sting when they'd torn into his beak, wrapped around his double’s fist.

Ripcord smiled faintly. “Come on. I’m just kidding, son.”

Son? Launchpad felt his fists tightening again.

The other Launchpad caught sight of him and grinned. “Hey, if it isn’t my better half! Didn’t think I’d get to see you again.” He undid his seatbelt and swung out of the Gator. The whole machine rocked.

“Yeah. Me neither.”

Ripcord stopped just short of Launchpad and flexed his hands down by his sides, like he wasn’t quite sure what to do with them. He forced a smile. “Hey, son.”

Launchpad swallowed. All he had to do was open his arms; that’s all his father was waiting for. Ripcord wouldn’t barrel into a hug if it wasn’t something his kids wanted. All he was waiting for was an invitation. Launchpad kept his hands stubbornly at his sides. “Hi, Dad.”

The faint smile faded. “It’s good to see you again. How long has it been?”

Yeah, try and make him feel bad. “You two seem to be getting on really well. Which is great, but Mom kind of gave me the impression you were worried he was going to cause trouble.”

The Negaverse Launchpad held up his hands. “Hey, woah. I told you guys, I know I’m a bit rough around the edges, but if I do anything you don’t like all you’ve gotta do is tell me.”

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” said Birdie. “You haven’t done anything.”

Ripcord locked his gaze with Launchpad’s. “Well, we had to do something to get our son to actually come visit us once in the next decade.”

Birdie put a hand to her face. “Rip, no.”

Ripcord jerked at the sound of his wife’s voice, and then flushed.

“I knew it! I came because I thought you guys needed my help. Now I find out its just Dad trying to trick me!”

Drake winced. “LP…”

His father wouldn’t quite look at him. “I wasn’t trying to trick you, it’s just… well what was I supposed to do? And seriously, how fast did you drive here? Your mother called you yesterday. So apparently it isn’t that difficult to get your butt out here.”

“Because I was worried! I can’t believe this!” Launchpad stomped past his father.

The Negaverse Launchpad raised up his hands. “Hey, listen, I never meant to cause any trouble. I just needed somewhere to go, and…”

He’d been heading for the Gator. But Launchpad stopped and glared at his double. “Why are you even here,” he growled, voice low.

“You told me not to go back to Saint Canard! I needed help, I couldn’t think of anyplace else to go.”

Launchpad stabbed a finger into his chest, hard, and didn’t really care that the jab brought a very dangerous look to his double’s eyes. Yeah, go on. Get violent in front of his family. But it stayed just that, a look. “Stay away from family. You’ve got your own, don’t you? Maybe go back to them.” Then he hoisted himself into the Gator, started her up, and tore back over the hill, towards his family’s hanger. He needed to clear his head. And there was only one surefire way to do that.

***

“Dad, this is super awkward,” Gosalyn whispered.

Her father flushed. “Gosalyn, shush!”

Everyone ignored her anyway. Loopey made the first move. She went over to her father and put her arms around him. “Hey, daddy.”

At least, as far as she could get around his broad torso anyway. Ripcord broke into a smile, one that was not forced like the one he’d given Launchpad, and engulfed his daughter in his arms. “You’re trying to be cute to make me feel better, aren’t you?”

“Totally.”

It was probably the right thing to do. The poor guy definitely looked like he needed the hug. Gosalyn wasn’t sure what had gotten into Launchpad. Sure this was awkward, but he was kind of being a jerk to his father. She fought with her dad her all the time. But if she hadn’t seen him in ages she’d at least give him a hug and be happy about it.

Loopey turned to the Negaverse Launchpad. “I’m still not real sure what’s going on here. But I’d… I’d like to talk to you. I just think I need to go talk down my actual brother first.”

Launchpad smiled faintly. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

“Well,” said Birdie, “Lets go inside and we’ll get your something to eat.” She gestured for them all to follow her. Ripcord trailed inside behind her. He still looked down in the dumps.

The Negaverse Launchpad fell into step beside her father. “Um listen… ah… Drake. I’m real sorry about, you know, trying to light you on fire. We’re going to have to spend time together here anyway so… we don’t have to be friends. But I’m not your enemy is all I’m saying.”

Drake scowled up at him. “Well, I guess you’ve managed to behave yourself here for the last few months. As long as you don’t do anything that requires a certain dashing superhero get himself involved, I’m willing to give you a chance.”

Gosalyn huffed. Her father may have been fooled but she was not so easy to trick. She shouldered past the Negaverse Launchpad, which kind of hit him in the back of the knee, and just resulted in spinning her around. She recovered, and fixed a glare on Launchpad’s startled double. “I’ve got my eye on you,” she hissed, and then turned and ran into the house.

“She doesn’t like me, does she?” she just caught Launchpad saying as the screen door slammed behind her.

Well, he wasn’t so dumb now was he?

The next half an hour was… weird to say the least. First Birdie showed them pictures of Launchpad as a kid. Which was about the only interesting part. Gosalyn grabbed the pictures off her and shuffled through them. Baby Launchpad was so cute, and chubby, and falling over in nearly every photo she imagined that, at that age, when he crashed out of something, he’d bounced. “Dad, where are your baby photos?”

“In a box. Which I burnt. Then sunk.”

Ripcord was pretty quiet but every couple of minutes he’d fidget, get up, and ask something like: “I’m going to the kitchen, does anyone want another cup of tea. Or a snack?” Then go and push a few things around in there, even through no one actually wanted anything. Then he’d come and sit back down and stare forlornly at the centre of the table.

Birdie and her Dad seemed to be having a fairly normal, if boring, adult conversation. At least until Birdie asked: “So, do you and Launchpad have any plans for the future?”

“Er…” her father absentmindedly stirred the tea he’d finally let Ripcord get for him after he’d asked for the third time. “Pardon?”

Ripcord put a hand to his face. “Birdie,” he said, voice low. “For the last time they’re not a couple.”

Drake turned pink. “Wait… what?”

Gosalyn shot to her feet. “Mr McQuack, I think I will have that snack after all.”

“Sure, kiddo. You want me to come and…”

“No, I can get it.” Gosalyn ran into the kitchen. Her shoulders slumped and she let out a sigh of relief. “Thank goodness.” She made her way out the kitchen door and onto the porch. She breathed deep the desert air. It was a little dry, but better than awkward adult conversations. She rubbed her hands together. “Now, what trouble can I get into around here?”

***

Chapter 3

#dwd91 #darkwing duck #darkwing #darkwing duck 1991 #dwd #drake mallard #launchpad #launchpad mcquack #nega launchpad #negalaunchpad #negaduck #gosalyn #ripcord mcquack #loopey mcquack #birdie mcquack #fanfic #fanfiction #darkwing fanfiction #darkwing fanfic

8 notes · View notes

normiewrites · 5 years ago

Note

I think a lot about being hawks childhood friend and him falling In love with you but after he moves aways and becomes a hero you forget about him. Then he meets you again after he became a spy. Everytime he tries to interact and talk to you, you keep calling him "hawks" and he just want to tell you he is "keigo" but he won't because he knows how dangerous it is for him to be in your life. 😭 Is this angsty enough

This took so long and it feels like shit, oh well.

Please listen to ‘Everything I wanted’ by Billie Eilish, it’s kinda of the inspiration (besides the request)

Here’s the angst to all the Hawk whores, including @sparkncharge

(Also I’ve changed the backstory of Hawks and his job, as well as Stain, so just go with the flow)

Warning(s): angst

Angel - Takami Keigo x (fem)Reader

‘I had a dreamI got everything I wanted’

You hair was different now, it had changed in your own unique way. You wore different clothes too, but it still looked good on you. You also seemed to be more mature, politely talking to the man behind the counter as you ordered your pizza. But your smile was still the same; beautiful and simple yet was able to claw at his heart. Takami gripped the edge of the table, feeling all the emotions rush back into him, his heart buckling over.

Takami softly sniffled, looking down at his bloodied knees, the wind pinching it slightly. He had been trying to practice flying, but the winds suddenly changed, and he lost control, landing on a road a few streets away from his. As he sat on the edge of a walkway, his small wings shook along with his legs, now noticing the few grazes on his palms.

“Are you ok?” a small voice asked him, snapping his head up to the small girl that stood in front of him.

Through his teary eyes he could see your small face peering at him in curiosity and concern, your mouth in a small ‘o’ as you titled your head at him, taking him in. You had never seen such a quirk, and you thought his wings were magnificent, just like out of a fairy tale. He was like an angel. You held a small emergency kit behind you, fiddling with the handle as you waited for the boy to respond.

“I-I fell” he sniffled out softly, wiping his nose with the back of his hands.

“Oh no, that must hurt! But don’t worry, why? Because I am here!” you giggled softly, pumping one of your fists into the air, smiling down at him as you played out All Might.

Takami’s eyes sparkled, a small smile lifting onto his face at your impression. After multiple nights of watching All Might save countless of lives, he would never fail to cheer along with him. After seeing his smile, you got on your knees, tending to his injuries. Your father had taught you how to bandage wounds. It stung, but the view of your h/c hair littered with clips and your sweet smile distracted Takami, now his mouth in a small ‘o’.

“Hawks?” he heard, your voice snapping him out of his day dream as you stood before his empty table, holding your receipt for the pizza in your hand.

His wings fluttered softly at his hero name, his spine feeling the same tingles as it did all those years ago. God knows what would happen to him once you said his real name.

But you never did.

“I’m such a huge fan of yours!”

Realization kicked him in the guts. Of course, you didn’t recognize him. He shouldn’t have expected it, considering your ‘incident’. You had lost some of your memories, and that included the ones with Keigo. He vaguely remembered getting the call from your mother from the hospital right before he started his secret ‘internship’ with Stain. Besides, he had changed too; his old side parted blond hair now swooped back and messy, his baby fat gone and even his wings turned darker from maturing. But he couldn’t help feeling how deep his heart sank, his food now seeming unappetizing as his heart filled his stomach.

“I know you might be obligated to take a photo with a fan of yours, but actually I would rather talk to you. Would you mind if I sat here? I need to wait for my order anyways” you asked, pointing to the seat in front of him.

His wings went stiff as your request, accidentally hitting the table besides you, making you jump softly and giggle at him. He completely broke down his character at a few of your words, but your laugh was still the same and it made his stomach twist all the same too.

“U-Uh, sure” he smiled, motioning to the seat before tucking his wings back, chewing his lip softly.

“You were amazing the day other, just flying in and saving everyone from the burning building. You saved so many lives!” you exclaimed, the adrenaline of meeting your favourite Pro-hero rushing through your veins as you kept talking about his cases.

Currently, Takami was working a vigilante with Stain in secret. Their new mission was to infiltrate the system of heroes by disguising themselves as one and climbing up the ranks. Takami just entered the scene 6 months ago, but he worked his way up fast, surprising everyone.

Keigo zoned out as you went on about his work, focusing on your face instead. He couldn’t see it properly before, but now he it was everything he remembered. You took his breath away, as if he was flying on cloud nine. If only he was the same to you.

‘I had a dream

I got everything I wanted

But when I wake up, I see

You with me’

Keigo woke up with a soft prickling sensation that came from the base of his wings and spine. He peeked open his eyes as he remained on lying on his stomach on the makeshift bed, watching as you touched his feathers. The morning sunshine trickled in through the cracks of the pillow fort that you both had made in your backyard, highlighting the wisps of your hair and your soft cheeks. Takami had never let people touch his wings, he felt too sensitive, but how you did it soothed him. You hadn’t noticed that he had woke up, and he didn’t want you to, wanting to forever live in this moment. He kept one eye shut, while his other eye peeked at your beauty. He had never seen such an angel in his life, wanting to burn your image in his mind. He had never felt this way, it was strange, but he wanted to feel like this forever.

“Your wings are so cool, Keigo.”

“Hawks?”

He blinked his eyes slowly, wiping a few tears from his eyes, which hadn’t gone unnoticed by you. You always noticed the smallest things.

“Are you okay? You seem to be crying” you said, the same curious and concerned face peeking right at him. Flashbacks of your first encounters running through his mind.

Takami chuckled, “Sorry, it’s just that it’s touching when people notice my work. But shh, don’t tell anyone, it’ll ruin my cool boy persona.”

This was the first time he had ever lied to you, and his tongue stung from it. He felt like he drank poison as he looked at your unconvinced face. He was never able to lie to you, that’s why he never did. But you let it be, not wanting to pester a stranger.

“It was so fun talking to you, you’re someone I look up to. I wish I could talk more, but I have to go to my friend, it’s her birthday and I had to get the pizza for the party”, she smiled sincerely, resting her hands on her lap.

He felt his heart sink even further, the tips of his wings now touching the cool marble of the floor. He wanted to tell you everything; your pillow forts, the adventures you both had, how much you both troubled the stores in the neighborhood, how you used to touch his wings, how you were his first friend, and how you were his first and only love.

Hiccups shook his body as he tried his best to control his breathing, his wings quivering around him as he sat on your porch, his body going cold. He softly jumped from your sudden touch on his wings, but the quivering stopped just as quickly when you softly stroked his feathers, the way he liked it. The warm touch of your fingers trailing down his feathers and lining the edges of his wings sent a comforting chill down his spine that only you were ever able to conjure. You had noticed a few uneven spots in his wings, your brows furrowing in thought, wondering what happened.

“What happened, Keigo?” you asked, looking at him with a smile that made him want to forget everything bad.

“They hurt me on my first day. T-they called me ‘Chicken little’, a-and plucked a few feathers of mine. Their touch was so different from yours, it hurt so much. Why did they do that, y/n?” he asked, his bird eyes now looking at, streaks of tears painted his cheeks as he looked lost in the world of life.

‘And you say, “As long as I’m here, no one can hurt you

Don’t wanna lie here, but you can learn to

If I could change the way that you see yourself

You wouldn’t wonder why here, they don’t deserve you”’

But now you weren’t here for him anymore. Maybe as a fan, but not as someone who loved him, not as someone who could touch his feathers in the blissful way that you did. As much as he wanted to tell you everything, he knew he couldn’t. His life was too dangerous for you, and he would rather be de-winged than to put you in harm’s way. His heart was always yours, but never to keep.

You got up, and slung your backpack over your shoulders. He wanted to hold your hand and keep you there, in his life, in the warm embrace of his wings, in his heart without any pain. But life was like that, and he couldn’t stop it.

‘I tried to screamBut my head was underwater’

“Have a good day, Hawks” you smiled, Hawks immediately getting up from his seat, bowing his head in respect. His heart beating against his chest, trying to escape and stay in your arms. The thuds were all he could hear as his body heated up slightly, frustration and sadness poking his brain and choking up his throat.

“You too, my fangirl” he said soflty, in hopes that he would see your smile and hear your giggle for the last time.

He succeeded, his wings fluttering softly as you chuckled. Everything felt too quick as walked away from his table, your footsteps seeming too quick, as if you were trying to escape. His eyes followed your back, remembering how your hugs were always the best, your arms perfectly fitting around his body, knowing how to lace around his wings as he used to nuzzle his face in the crook of your neck, the scent of your hair refreshing him.

Your retreating back stilled for a second, turning around as you looked at him with your angelic face. The face he saw so many times, in tears, in laughter, in confusion, in embarrassment and in love. He could never get it out of his head. He got hopeful, as if you could read his mind, and that you possible remembered everything. That you both could go back to your old life, no memory loss and no vigilante life. Just a life full of love and happiness.

His wings quivered softly, anticipating your words as his eyes bore into yours, time now slowing down as you approached your last words to him.

“Your wings are so cool, Hawks.”

#hawks #takami keigo #takami keigo x reader #hawks x reader #bnha #boku no hero academia #mha #my hero academia #angst #billie eilish #everything i wanted

287 notes · View notes

melon-kiss · 4 years ago

Text

Screaming, Pt 4

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Link to the part on AO3

____________________________

I hear voices over the black fog of my unconsciousness but I can’t be sure they’re real. I think it’s the doctors. They try to revive me. I hear that I have a stable pulse and I breathe. Good. Or whatever.

When I open my eyes, I’m sweaty and frightened. My T-shirt is so wet it changed its colour to dark grey. My hair is sticking to my face. My eyeballs go from one side to another in an utter madness. I notice it’s already dark outside. Doctor Mike lights up a small lamp on my nightstand. I think he suspects me of being scared of darkness. I’ve never been. Now he’s right. He says comforting things, like: “You’re safe now” or “I can see you’ve been tortured”. But “torture” doesn’t even cover it. I’ve been through a vivisection. Sherlock gutted me out and now I know for sure he did it on purpose.

I fight insomnia for very long hours. When I manage to fall asleep, I hardly find any rest in it.

I toss and turn endlessly. It never gets better. The bed sheet is too hot or too cold. The dreams I have are horrifying. All the memories I’ve kept safely tamed resurface and haunt me. Suffocate me with their weight. They’re my burden now.

They burn me out. They wreak havoc. I feel every cell in my body ache as I remember the pain of all the words unsaid, all the moments not lived. I see the bright blue eyes, always looking through. I hear the voice. It lies to me. Does it, though? It says: I... I love you. And again, quieter: I love you. It hurts because I’m sure it’s insincere. It couldn’t be any other way. He’ll never love me like I want to be loved. He can’t give me safety and protection. He can’t support me. He can’t be with me. He can’t be with me. He can’t be with me.

I scream. The hot air rips my lungs into shreds. My voice is hoarse and piercing at the same time, it echoes in the entire building. I scream as though being cut in two; a primal shriek finds its way out of me. It’s the only thing that keeps me sane - otherwise the pain would be unbearable. I want to be dead. I scream so loud the night staff comes to my room every fifteen minutes to wake me and assure me I’m safe but it doesn’t take long for the circle to go around again. They finally give up and inject something into my arm. The dangerous mix of fear and pain is numb now. It doesn’t vanish; it’s covered with a warm fluff of the meds. It’s there. He’ll never love me the way I want to be loved.

My eyes are stuck on one point on the ceiling. I want to scream but I can’t.

* * *

The cold late-autumn air lashes my face when I place my foot outside the door. I wrap the scarf tighter around my neck. It’s difficult to keep yourself warm when there’s not much of the fat tissue in your body.

My therapist says it’ll get better. I don’t know. I don’t think he tries to lie to me. I choose to believe him. He also says that I’ll never fully recover. My psyche is broken beyond repair. LSD killed me and didn’t do it at all. All I can do is to try to make the best of it. “Regaining your memory was the most important part,” he said once. “And you’ve succeeded in it.” I think he hopes that there’s a chance for me to get back to my old self in that. I’ve lived with my missing memories for over six months and today is the first day I feel good enough to leave the house. I’m going to face death. Many deaths.

I walk down the London streets and the air soaks up in my lungs. It’s cold but in a pleasant way. The hot air gets out of me with carbon dioxide. I breathe in the chill oxygenium with my eyes closed. I relish the moment. I never know when my brain will snap and turn everything into endless sadness. I don’t have fury attacks anymore but instead, I wake up in the middle of every night, screaming. The scream eventually turns into cry. I curl up in my bed and wait for the pain to let go. It never really does but its level decreases to the point I’m able to live with.

Being yourself. What does it even mean? Whatever I do, I’m me. I’m me when I walk down the London streets, heading to work. I’m me when I jump out of my bed and choke someone. I’m me when I throw up because my body cannot contain the anxiety caused by my fugue. I’m me when I scream my head off in the middle of a night. I’m me when I kiss someone I love. I’m me when I cry because I couldn’t be more broken. I’ve learned to simply accept whatever comes to me. This is who I am. A mess. Fixing me is a job for a lifetime.

I’ve been missing the lab. I throw myself into work because it helps me soothe the suffering. The relief is temporary but whatever works, right? I love the sound of the glasses clinking against each other. I love how my brain focuses entirely on bringing out my scientific knowledge and it almost resembles the mind I used to have. These are the moments when I know the old Molly Hooper is still there. She didn’t die because she always wins.

It’s almost dark outside when I turn off the lights. I take a short look around to make sure I’ve cleaned everything up. I push the door open and fix the handbag on my shoulder. I walk out into the corridor, pale-y lightened with the cold hospital lamps. I raise my head up and freeze.

He freezes as well. He’s changed; weaker, sadder. His blue eyes widen and I can see his breathing stops. His mouth are open in an utter shock. He’s speechless but doesn’t look away. He swallows with difficulty.

“Molly.”

The soft whisper fills out the space of the corridor. I begin to get dizzy and my heart rate quickens rapidly. I take a small step back and cling to the door behind me. I’m close to hyperventilate. He makes a move towards me but I start visibly shivering in response.

“Molly...”

He’s filled with guilt which adds a fair weight to his movements. His eyes, usually cold and focused on looking through his mind palace, are mild, even glossy. His eyebrows frown in worry. I’m sure he pities me. I don’t need his pity. I slide down the door and sit on the floor with my legs pulled to my chest. I see his coat getting closer with a corner of my eye. My body trembles strongly. I let out the tears.

“Leave me alone,” I whisper.

He stands in place for a while and walks off eventually. When he’s no longer in the range of my eyesight, I curl up on the floor and cry. He can’t be with me.

* * *

I’m slightly cheerful on my days off. The winter is pretty ugly this year; it doesn’t look like the ones I remember. No fluffy snow and colourful lights. But maybe I’ve just gotten too old to see them? I think it’s sad. We become adults and forget all the beauty we’ve had as children. We forget that the key to happiness is not only in winning the jackpot but also in seeing the little things and enjoying them. In finding a four-leaf clover and thinking: “Today I’m going to be lucky”. In hearing your mum is going to make your favourite biscuits because she loves you so much she could do anything to see a smile on your face. I sound like The Little Prince, don’t I? When your brain tries to find its way back to sanity, you happen to have a lot thoughts. Trust me.

I deliberately step into every grey, muddy-snowy-watery puddle and smile. My shoes will get soaked up for a while but I enjoy this childish activity until I can. I just hope my groceries won’t slip out of my shopping bag to fall into one of these snowy monsters. I think about the small but pleasant stuff: like ordering a pizza and watching a film. My brain loves turning into tapioca. Well, it doesn’t, I do. I also bought brownies and can’t wait to stuff my stomach with them after the pizza box is empty. For a moment I think of the poor person who would have to go through my stomach content if I killed myself tonight, and then shake it off. I don’t want to die but I don’t have much of a will to live as well. I’ve learned not to joke about suicide around other people, though. It turns out death is a difficult matter for normal human beings. I wouldn’t know, I’ve always been very practical about it. It doesn’t scare me that much. Well, maybe a little because I’ve never been through this. They say I have but I don’t remember a shred from this moment. I’ve regained a memory of being strongly hit in a head in my house but then... it’s all darkness. The next thing was the hospital ceiling and the conversation The Three Horsemen of Madness had in my room.

I’ve loved watching trash telly (and not only this) because it keeps my sadness and insanity at bay. I’m well aware of that. My therapist didn’t have to tell me this but he did it anyway. He even asked if I wanted to do anything about it. I didn’t but he says (because the matter obviously wasn’t dropped) it would work out for the best because a broken heart cannot be mended by watching stories about other hearts being healed. I thought he was supposed to help me keep my post-LSD psyche under control but it seems I couldn’t have been more wrong. When I look back at the memories I’ve retrieved, I can’t help but think... maybe this craziness has always been with me? The way I sewed my happiness with his skin, desperately, utterly, unconditionally, obsessively... Omnipresent but invisible. Courageous - with a rabbit heart. The smallest spark of hope I’ve ever seen kept me by his side. Maybe LSD only sped up what was inevitable: a nervous breakdown. Although I wasn’t really weak. My heart just popped, heavy from all the sorrow it has carried for five years.

Now, after being completely broken, I’m learning to live in a world without him. I don’t blame him - after all, it was me who asked him to leave me alone. I thought he would fight for me but I’m glad he didn’t. My insanity would feed on the scraps he would throw me, reliving the annealed wounds with a red-hot steel. He doesn’t come to Bart’s or maybe he does but he’s good at avoiding people. And sometimes, when everything seems fine and I’m home alone (which is always), I fill out the silence with singing. I choose the saddest songs I know and sing. I bet my neighbours have had to call an ambulance to save their bleeding ears at least once but I’m a psycho. I can do whatever I want because I don’t care.

I’ve recently watched Eclipse and I sing a song from its soundtrack under my nose when I unlock the door. The door clicks and I enter my completely dark house. I don’t turn on the lights and enjoy the fact that it’s already dim outside but it’s too early for the street lights to turn on and shine into my kitchen. I stand in the entrance room and soak in the emptiness. It fills me out and seeps into my bones. This is where my body find its way to the state of default. I put my shopping bag away on the floor and untangle my winter shoes. After that I move the groceries into the kitchen, almost tiptoeing, as though afraid of waking someone up.

I take off my coat and scarf, putting them down on the kitchen counter. I start unloading my shopping bag, thinking about the pizza I’m going to order. I’ve gained some weight, maybe a little too much but that’s all right. I couldn’t care less about my body. If I had to worry about my appearance as well, I would definitely kill myself.

“My love has concrete feet, my love’s an iron ball, wrapped around your ankles, over the waterfall...”

“If I didn’t know better, I would think it was on purpose.”

A glass bottle of a carrot juice slips out of my palm as I jump in a complete horror. My socks soak in the sticky liquid but I can barely seem bothered by this. I turn on the heel and look at the utter darkness in my living room. The same moment the street lights turn on and a beam of weak light falls on his face as well. I feel my body trembling. I want to back out but there is no escape - he could catch me any time. Not that he would but the fear takes over my mind.

“You... you broke into my house?” I ask, panting. A panic attack is around the corner.

“I entered your house without your knowledge,” he replies, utterly steady. “There’s a difference-“

“What are you doing here?” I put on a tough act but we both know it’s a ruse. I don’t care. I don’t want him to break me again. I might never recover.

“I came to see you.”

I scoff.

“You could do it the normal way.”

“Would you meet me, then?”

“No.”

“Exactly.”

I’m pressed against the refrigerator and I feel a pain in my back as the metallic door resists to my spinal bones. He makes three steps forward. He takes off his gloves and shoves them into his coat pockets. He takes if off as well, with no rush, and throws it away on my couch. Without unlocking our eyes, he approaches me. I’m sure I’ll tip over the refrigerator in a second because he’s so close there can’t be more than a foot between us. He stops. My head is dizzy and I feel like throwing up but then he squats and begins to collect the shreds of glass bottle from the floor. I’m sweaty but relieved. The tension leaves my body and I exhale loudly.

It catches his attention. He looks up at me.

“I’m not here to hurt you.”

I scoff again.

“It doesn’t matter.”

I turn around to face the kitchen counter and find paper towels but they’re on the opposite side. I glare down and see that the juice is everywhere but my socks are completely soaked up, so it wouldn’t be smart of me to walk off to the bathroom for a mop. Besides, I could step into the cracks and that was not the point of his help.

He finishes and throws the glass away. He remembers very well where my bin is. After that, he wordlessly goes to my bedroom and comes back with a pair of dry socks. I can see that he spread a bit of the juice on the floor but his gesture successfully disables my frustration. He sticks out his arms towards me. I hesitate. What is he planning to do? I slowly reach out to his arms but he slides them under my armpits and lifts me up over the juice, placing me on my small kitchen island. Then he disappears in the bathroom and comes back with the mop. He wipes out the floor. Not a word slips out of his lips.

I slowly take off my wet socks, watching his every move. I put the dirty socks away next to me and reach out for the paper towel. I dry my feet out while Sherlock cleans up my kitchen floor. Even my old self would say that only a lunatic would find it possible. Cheers to all of us, crazies. I put away the used paper towel as well and put on my new socks. I start to swing my legs a little bit as Sherlock finishes the cleanup. He walks off to the bathroom to rinse off the mop for the last time and comes back to me. I can’t look away somehow.

“Thank you,” I say in a hoarse voice. I clear my throat.

“I’m sorry,” he replies. “I didn’t mean to frighten you, nor be an intruder.”

I shrug.

“It was just a carrot juice. I’ll drink more water, then.”

My legs swing more and more intensively. I know what it means and so does he, so I force myself to stop because a smirk crawls up on his face. I feel my cheeks burning up and I instantly regret tangling my hair into a pony tail. This is probably the most normal thing that happened to me in about nine months.

He places his hand next to my left thigh and leans on. I feel his perfume and something in me shivers. My heart rate goes wild but I cannot force myself to look away. He puts his palm really gently on my right cheek and his face is so close I can see every pore on his skin. I give in and let out a quiet exhale. I close my eyes and my body is fulfilled with warmth as his lips lock with mine. He moves a little to stand fully in front of me and takes my face in both of his hands. His lips open more and more eagerly as he doesn’t see any objection on my side. My legs clench around his waist, I throw my arms around his neck. I pull him closer but it’s difficult to say whether I’m motivated by the kiss or the simple need of a hug.

I feel awaken. My body’s warm, pulsing with every beat my heart does. For the first time in many months I feel alive and I relish this moment because I know that in a minute, everything will end.

And it does.

I push him away a little too hard. He has to take a step back to prevent a fall. The passionate fire turns into anger.

“Don’t do it.”

I feel a twinge in my chest seeing pain in his eyes. He looks as if I just crushed his last hope. His blue eyes are tired, miss their old spark. I hate myself for pushing him away and feeling the way I feel.

“Why?” he asks.

“Because it doesn’t make sense,” I hiss through my teeth.

“What doesn’t?”

“Us.”

He winces and shifts nervously.

“What?”

I clench my palm into a fist and press it against my forehead, leaned forward. A forgotten suffering comes back to me. I’ve buried it so deep inside I was certain it was gone but it’s been waiting for me. A battle I didn’t want to fight starts right here and right now. And I, again, want to be dead and dead only. I close my eyes so tightly it almost hurts as does every cell in my body.

“We don’t make sense,” I utter after anticipating a less painful moment.

He starts breathing quicker. He’s as lost as he’s never been before. I imagine that’s how he looked like calling me to save me. Helpless in the face of the truth.

“How could you have fallen in love with me, then? ” he asks, hopelessness taking over him. “Despite all the pain I’ve caused you, all the things I’ve said...”

“I suppose love is a kind of madness,” I say, my unseeing eyes focused on one irrelevant point.

“Your love is illogical, since I’ve always been an utter cock.”

“Not always,” I reply, smirking weakly. “But we don’t love for the logical reasons. We love despite all the illogical ones.”

We fall silent. I enjoy my most sane moment for several minutes. It can disappear anytime.

“I love you.”

I raise my head up. It feels like my heart skips a beat.

His eyes gaze at me with pain I’ve never seen on his face. He almost pants, his arms are unfolded. He’s like a living target. He’s just showed me where to shoot and I stretch my bow, aiming for his chest.

“But you cannot give me the love I want,” I reply, my voice stifled. I finally sigh in exasperation. “We’re far two different. It would be a disaster of a relationship. Can you imagine yourself cleaning our flat every Saturday, planning our wedding, putting our children to sleep? Because this is want I want. But it would only hurt us more.”

“I can change,” he says.

I scoff.

“And that’s the point,” I respond. “I don’t want you to change. I love you the way you are. I love every part of you. But you cannot love me. You couldn’t have loved me before and you can’t do it now.”

“I think I’ve loved you long before,” he says in a weak voice.

I am... sorry. Forgive me.

You can see me.

You do count.

I’ve always trusted you.

Thank you.

The one person who mattered the most.

I hope you’ll be very happy, Molly Hooper.

You look well.

I’m worried about you, Molly.

I love you.

I gaze at him almost breathless. I blink and make myself utter a response:

“I love you, too,” I whisper. My eyes fill with tears. “But you cannot make me happy... Sherlock.”

His name tastes sweet in my mouth. I’ve missed saying it. Now I glance at his lips and think about the moments we shared a few minutes ago and back then in the hospital. I could share them with him forever. I would never get bored of him. But there would be times when he would forget about my presence in our flat, when he wouldn’t listen to me, chasing a lead. When he would be lost and I couldn’t find him.

And now... me with my mood swings and moments of insanity striking when the least expected. With my broken mind. Unfixable. Fucked up.

He suffers and this time, I’m the one to blame. I’ve broken the unbreakable man.

“I’ve turned you into something you’ve always hated,” I say. “You’re weak, you’re an easy target. You’re emotional and vulnerable.”

“As I’ve always been,” he replies. “You’re my strength.”

I wince.

“Strength? Sherlock-“

“You’re my strength because you’ve helped me understand myself better than anyone. I’ve never had to pretend with you. And... and back then in Sherrinford, when I realised how much pain I’ve caused you... no one ever has made me realise so much of me with so little words as you have. You are the reflection of my sensitivity. With you, I’m no longer myself.”

He begins to slowly get closer.

“But... But this is my point!” I protest. “It’s not a good thing becau-“

“It is a good thing because... what does it really mean - being myself?” He stops at less than a foot from me and scoffs. “I am myself in every minute of my life. I won’t miss my old self, though. I was a completely blind moron, who couldn’t appreciate people around him. And you’ve managed to look behind this curtain and see the man I am now. You’ve taught me to be who I am now.”

He smiles, lifting only one corner of his lips but he knows. I try to back out and escape his look but I feel that I don’t want to. My body is slowly giving in. It is so warm. It feels so good. I love him so much.

“But the old Molly may be no longer there. I’m a mess now,” I mumble, trying to avoid his gaze.

He cups my face in his palms again and places our foreheads together. I can’t resist. I don’t want to resist. I lose control over my head and I’m not even worried. A pleasant wave of chemicals floods my body and they’re better than any of the antipsychotics I’ve taken in the past nine months. I’m still a mess. I know that Sherlock will regret his decision one day when a switch in my brain goes off and I’ll stand at a rooftop (flashbacks will kill him, though). But I’m tired of trying to be normal.

“So am I. When I found out that Eurus had attacked you... I was both furious and hurt. I was torn. I still feel guilty over the fact that I couldn’t have prevented this and that she could have killed you. I was ready to bring hell on Earth. Maybe you’re a mess... but you’re also somehow a piece of puzzle that’s missing from my messy life.”

I feel the warmth of his breath on my face, the softness of his hands on my cheeks. His curls tickle my eyelids. I so weak.

“Oh, come on,” he whispers, “just give in already.”

I giggle and lose myself completely. I want to scream... but everything I do speaks louder than words.

#sherlolly #fanfiction #sherlock x molly #molly x sherlock #sherlock holmes #molly hooper #screaming

10 notes · View notes

id-never-letyoudown · 5 years ago

Text

Part 4

@mystic-majestic @youcanteverknowenough @vanillamaa @randomwriter90 @freezing-blue @liawinchester67 @randomwriter90 @bevaause @occulta-lacrimarum13 @capsicle-the-fabulous @juhavs @idk-but-i-exist

Jaskier had taken up a rather curious habit as of late. A habit which involved carding his fingers through the Witcher’s hair. Grooming him. Picking out leaves and the like. It wasn’t just something he did with him either. Roach too. And the horse loved it. Whenever they stopped Jaskier would hug his arms around the mount’s neck and plant a kiss just between it’s eyes before brushing that mane. There was one time where Jaskier seemingly forgot and Roach just about nudged him off his feet.

Which got a laugh out of Geralt. “You’ve spoiled her.” He tells him, feeling around in one of his saddle bags.

“She deserves it.” Jaskier scoffs, giving Roach a peck. “Don’t tell me you’re jealous now.” He teased, running his fingers through the horse’s coarse mane-much to her delight. “You’re next.”

Geralt recalled still finding petals from the last time he let Jaskier play with his hair. But it had been mighty worth it. If only so he could watch Jaskier’s face as he did so. He’s never seen someone look so pensive about a single flower’s placement before. And the fingers through his hair after a long day had been more than welcomed.

“Why’ve we stopped?” Jaskier asks, looking to the pub they stood before. “Fancy a drink, do you?” “Gotta drop off a package.” He answers, “Client’s in there.”

“Oh? Since when are you a courier?” Jaskier gives Roach a scratch behind the ear, scrunching up his face when she huffed hot air right at him. “I’m only teasing, silly girl.”

“Something tells me they’re not gonna like what’s inside.” Geralt grimaced, holding the parcel aloft. It wasn’t clear what it held, but the Witcher could smell death through the parchment.

Jaskier too wrinkled his nose. “Oh yuck-and here I thought one of us stepped in something foul.” He hadn’t noticed the stench at first, but as the days went on. “Almost makes me lose my appetite…. Almost. I’m famished.”

“Jaskier-”

“Geralt, I’ll be fine. I’ve been kicking it on my own for ages now, if things get hairy I’ll slip right on out. Besides, I really don’t think you want to get in between me and a meal right now.” The hunger gnawed at him to no end, and he could smell the food from inside the pub. Mouthwatering.

Geralt cocked a brow, suddenly recalling the incident with the squirrel. “… Point taken.”

The pub was quiet, being broad day. It wasn’t as busy as it would have been if it were night. And for that Geralt was thankful. It made keeping an eye on Jaskier all the easier. And right now the bard was seated at the bar, chatting it up with the barmaid as he filled his belly.

A familiar face caught the Witcher’s eye.

“Seems like we’re getting a colorful bunch of guests lately.” The woman commented, “First those bandits, then the mage. Now you two. A Witcher and his bard.”

Jaskier didn’t know what to ask about first. “Bandits? They come here often?”

There was a pause, but Jaskier scarcely noticed it. Busy bringing the bowl of stew to his lips. If he weren’t so hungry he would have noticed the brief flash of something akin to panic crossing her face. “Only… once a month to cause a ruckus, but then the mage came. They ran with their tails between their legs. Wouldn’t worry about them. I think she’s still here.” Something about that didn’t sit right with Jaskier. He had this sneaking suspicion.

He finished off his food, wiping his mouth. “I’ll be back for seconds, do you have somewhere I can wash up?” He felt uneasy. The hair at the back of his neck stood straight up. Something felt amiss about this whole thing. The food didn’t even taste right. And the people here, they looked… off. Their clothes were so old fashioned, out of date. And something about them made his stomach churn.

Jaskier felt silly. He was just being paranoid.

But once he rounded that corner he discovered that it might as well have been justified. “Oh of course!” His face dropped into a scowl, hands coming to rest on his hips. “I should have known.”

“Hello Jaskier, I was wondering where you were.” Yennefer greeted, leaning back from the witcher who stood across from her. “Lap dogs never do stray too far from their masters now, do they?” His scowl only deepened, “Oh lighten up, keep making that face and those wrinkles will never go away.”

Geralt rolled his eyes, “Can’t you two get along for one second?”

Jaskier came to stand at Geralt’s side, sending a glare the mage’s way. “No. Geralt I think we need to leave.”

“I haven’t even met with my client yet, Jaskier. I still have a job to do.”

“Something-just-something doesn’t feel right.” And it wasn’t just Yennefer’s presence putting him off.

Yennefer looked the bard over, saw his uneasiness. Saw him worrying his lip. She touched Geralt’s arm to gain his attention, “I think you should listen to him. There is something off to this place.”

Geralt hummed, and the thoughtful look that crossed him only served to rile Jaskier. If he said something it was brushed off, but if she said the same he took it to heart? How was that fair? Compared to Jaskier they hardly knew each other. So why-

Jaskier could feel that little green monster clawing at him again. “Geralt you can leave your bloody package with the damned barmaid, I’ll be outside. Waiting with Roach.”

“Someone’s in a foul mood.” He heard Yennefer say, but he was already leaving. Didn’t even stick around long enough to hear Geralt object, which he did.

Yennefer crossed her arms. She hadn’t expected to run into either of them, not today. Not after that whole mess. She was looking for someone. A lead. She was told they frequented this pub, but that turned out to be a fat lie. She clicked her tongue, watching the bard leave.

These two just reeked of each other. And when she said reeked, she meant it. Who was she to judge? She cares not for who the witcher took into his bed. It was curious however. How the bard seemed to be glowing despite the sour look about him. How Geralt tensed when he left his sights. As though he wanted to chase after him.

Suffice to say she had some suspicions.

“He doesn’t-”

“Like me?” She mused, “If things were reversed I don’t think I’d like him either.” At the look Geralt gave her she chuckled, “I don’t hate him, it’s just good fun getting under his skin. He’s quite adorable.”

That at least made Geralt feel relieved.

His attention turned down the hall, to the sound of footsteps approaching them. Must have been another pub goer. Or that’s what he thought, until the door opened and in walked Jaskier.

“I thought you were leaving.”

The bard blinked, staring up at the two of them, then out the door he just walked through. “I was-and I am!” He turned, opening the door wide with the most perplexed of faces.

Yennefer grew uneasy.

Jaskier walked right back out that door. And that seemed to be that. Until the pair heard the entrance to the pub slam shut, followed by a shout of, “What the hell?”

They walked out of the hall to find Jaskier, once again, staring at another door like it just told him to ‘fuck off’. And to an effect, it did. The bard gave an exasperated shout, “How am I supposed to storm off like this?” He swung the door wide open, marching out once more. He didn’t make it three feet before something unseen forced him back. The door slammed shut.

“Fuck.” Thank you, Geralt.

Yennefer went to stop the bard from trying a third time, only for him to yank himself away from her. “No, no-you, do not touch me.” He hissed.

“Three times is a death wish, bard. Whatever’s keeping us in here obviously doesn’t want us to leave.”

Jaskier locked eyes with her, glowering at the mage. Stubborn as ever he ignored the mage’s warning. The second his hand touched the handle he was thrown back, straight off his feet. And right into Yennefer.

The two of them groaned, Yennefer cursing the bard and his idiocy. She didn’t miss how Geralt went to his side. Didn’t miss the concern in his voice when he asked him if he was alright.

She did, thankfully, miss the bard’s lunch as he hurled. Right on the pub floor. “Oh how delightful.” She spat, grabbing one of his arms despite his protest, “Come on, let’s get you up. You damn…” She drew a breath, pausing. In her sentence, in her movements. She had his arm over her shoulders, and one arm wrapped around his waist. But her hand, her hand was on his stomach. And she could feel him freezing up.

Geralt had his other side, standing up straight with the bard leaning against him, slipping out of Yennefer’s hold. Yennefer who, still shocked, now stared at her palm.

It was a long few moments, moments Geralt was too busy checking on Jaskier during.

“Are you alright?” He asked again, and Jaskier cleared his throat.

“I’m fine, just winded.” His eyes went to Yennefer, who was staring right at him. Worry pinched at his gut.

“You… oh, wow.” She laughed, looking between them with her lips pursed. “Incredible, Geralt. You know, I never pegged you as a hypocrite.”

“Now isn’t the time.”

Jaskier pulled away from Geralt with a groan, “Ugh, if you two are going to argue leave me out of it.” He massaged his temples, “Let’s save it for later, alright? How about we figure out what the hell is going on?”

Yennefer’s eyes softened, wind pulled out of her sails. She sighed, reluctantly. “Fine. Once this is all said and done we can all sit around a campfire sharing our tales.” The sarcasm was incredibly heavy on this day.

The barmaid caught their attention. She was grinning from ear to ear. But if one bothered to look past her smile they’d be able to tell it wasn’t genuine. It hadn’t been for a while. She took a cloth to the counter top, shaking her head, “No one leaves this place.” She sighed. “Not once they’re caught.”

Geralt narrowed his gaze, drawing near to the bar. “What do you mean?”

“I think it’s obvious.” Yennefer scowled, “This place is a trap. Look around, Geralt. Don’t you think it’s odd?”

Jaskier looked at the man sat at the bar, who hadn’t moved since they came in. He waved a hand in front of his face, no response. Not even a flicker. “Sir?” He touched his shoulder. Cold. Ice cold. And Jaskier was only now noticing just how damn pale he was.

“This place. It has ways of luring people in. All kinds of ways.” The woman looked up, and Geralt was stunned by the lack of color to her eyes. Not even a pupil. They looked like glass. “Do you even remember who gave you that package, sir Witcher?”

Geralt opened his mouth. As if to speak. Only for the words to die on his tongue. No. No, he didn’t. He couldn’t recall a face. Nor where he had taken up the job. Was it Posada? He couldn’t remember.

“There was never a job, never a lead.” Her eyes fell on Yennefer, “I am sorry.”

The man Jaskier was trying to rouse lolled to the side, slumping in his seat. Until he collapsed to the floor in a terrible heap. This made the bard flee right to Geralt’s side, “I swear I didn’t do anything.”

“Don’t worry, I’ve seen this place take many over the years. They never suspect it.” The barmaid went to clean a glass. “I assume it’s painless. They never scream.”

“And what about you?” Yennefer demanded, “Why hasn’t it claimed you?”

“Because, I made it.” The woman’s smile was almost proud, and then it was bitter once more. “All I wanted was a safe haven. Where there were no lies. So I put sigils, symbols, all over the place. No one could utter a single white lie under this roof-”

“The sky is red.” Jaskier interrupted, still eyeing the corpse on the ground.

The barmaid continued, “Until, a man came along and broke it. Compulsive liar. Actually believed the shit he was spewing. See, so long as you think it’s true it’ll accept it. But he kept on, every day. Contradicting himself. It couldn’t take it. And now,” she waved a hand. “It lures in those tangled in webs of their own making, and feeds on them.”

She sighed, “I really wish I could help, but the only way I can even think that might help is if you three laid everything bare.”

“And so the truth will set you free.” Yennefer mumbled, “Well that’s just great. We’re never getting out of here-”

“I don’t think you’d be a terrible mother.” Geralt said, “I just never expected you to be the type. It was shocking.”

That sent her reeling, hand on her chest as she looked at the Witcher with wide eyes. “Are we doing this? Are we really-alright then.” Yennefer clapped her hands together. “I am still very much so on the rocks about you with that whole djin ordeal. Don’t get me wrong. I want to punch you in the face.” A grunt. “Jaskier.”

“Oh, no. My turn? Well for starters, and since you already clearly know something is up with your mage bullshit… I’m an omega. And I’m pregnant. I also want to punch Geralt in the face.” He crossed his arms frowning at the meer thought of having to share anything with the damn mage in the room. “Geralt.”

“… Your singing doesn’t sound like a pie without filling.” And that made him gasp so loud.

The three of them went on like that. Jaskier spilling very small, miniscule secrets he didn’t think mattered. Always skirting around what he felt was obvious. Until it came right down to it.

“… Sweet Kiss is about us.” He’s always lied and spun some tale whenever it came up. It’d been eating at him for a while now.“

Yennefer slammed her drink down, "No!” She gasped, maybe a teensy bit drunk. She watched him bury his face in his hands. “Oh you poor soul… Geralt, comfort your mate.”

“We’re not even mates, Yennefer.”

That seemed to throw Yennefer for a loop, and she was thrown through an even bigger loop when Geralt looked up and caught the both of them off guard. “No. But maybe I’d like to try.”

“… Try?” Jaskier could feel his pulse thudding in his ears.

“Relationships aren’t exactly a strong suit-” when Yennefer snorted he shot her a look. “But, I’m open to trying.”

His mouth was suddenly dry, “Oh, oh w o w…. I’m assuming it’d be an open thing? If we were to try, I mean.”

“Naturally. Can’t tie Jaskier down, what would all those noblewomen do?”

Jaskier laughed, “You know, they’d probably be awfully sore…. If we ever manage to get out of here.”

“We should try the door.” Yennefer suggested, rising up from the table. She started for the door, able to successfully swing it open. She cheered quietly to herself, walking out into the night. “Well, I did it at least. Your turn.” She rose her pint up, back to her lips.

Geralt got up.

Leaving Jaskier still inside the pub. The bard stood, rubbing the back of his neck. “There’s just-one more thing. Yennefer.” He cleared his throat, catching her eye from across the threshold. “I never hated you. I know that’s what you thought. I… may have been a little jealous. Worried even.” He looked down, slipping one toe over the line and holding his breath. “Worried you might screw everything over for me, selfish, I know. But I am very, very selfish. That’s not new.” He paused, halfway out the door.

“Did you really have to get all sappy on me?” Yennefer groaned, slinging an arm around the bard and mussing up his hair. “Don’t suppose this means we’re friends now?”

“Let’s just start over, how about that?” But his voice was cracking.

“… Jaskier.” Geralt cocked his head, eyes narrowing.

He groaned, frozen partway through the doorway. Seemed the pub wasn’t satisfied. “My name is Julian. Julian Alfred Pankratz.” His cheeks flushed, mumbling under his breath. “Do call me Jaskier.” And yet he still couldn’t leave, “Dammit! This isn’t fair!” Was nothing sacred. “Listen, I’m a man of many secrets. I will admit that. And I was planning on sharing, when the time was right.” He looked huffy, sure. But Geralt could smell the fear oozing off of him.

“I know I should have told you, of all people, sooner. Considering your profession and whatnot. But if you want to get technical here, you’re not all that bright, Geralt-” Yennefer laughed, “-I mean, we’ve known each other for what, ten, twenty years? And I still look like I did on the day we met.”

“Jaskier would you get to the point?”

“… just do remember that I’m with child and Yennefer still wants to punch you in the face.” A last try at getting a laugh in before he had to gather up all his courage. “Geralt, Yennefer… I’m not exactly human.”

And with that he was finally able to tumble through, fidgeting with his clothes. “Half human, more like. Technically speaking. It’s actually an interesting story, my birth…” He mumbled, weaving his fingers together and avoiding both of their eyes. “… please say something.”

“What are you, if not human.”

“That’s… exactly what I was hoping you wouldn’t ask. Let’s find some place to camp first, don’t know if you’ve noticed, but time passed differently out here.” And that was true, it was now pitch black. And Roach looked antsy. “… Yennefer will you be traveling with us?” He sounded hopeful, silently pleading with her. She hadn’t made a comment about his non-human status as of yet, and although he knew Jaskier wouldn’t harm him, he at least wished for someone to talk to.

“Don’t suppose why not, I’ve got nothing more to do.” And she wasn’t leaving the bard in the state he was in now, stressed and worried. It wasn’t safe. And she would only worry herself sick seeing him off now. – Finding a place to settle for the night had been far more stressful than anticipated. The air was thick with tension. Jaskier wouldn’t meet Geralt’s gaze, and just about hovered around Yennefer. She kept his mind off things.

By the time they got a fire going he was hoping Geralt had forgotten. But the steady gaze he felt on him said otherwise.

“… so, I’m part leshen-”

The choking that sounded beside him caused him to pause, turning to the mage with a quiet inquiry. She cursed between breaths, calming herself from the shock, “Your mother laid with a fucking leshen?”

“No!” He groaned, “It was a ritual-there was this whole thing-” but the two kept on, back and forth. Yennefer bringing up something about splinters, to which Jaskier wanted nothing more than to shove his head in the dirt and call it a night.

And then there was Geralt.

He remained silent throughout it all, until their conversation died down. “… This would explain the squirrel.” And Jaskier was both shocked and relieved at the response.

If Geralt had discovered this sooner, he would have been apprehensive. And hesitant to be alone with the bard. But let’s face it, if Jaskier wanted to do him or anyone else harm he would have already done so. And during all these years he’s never laid a finger on another person. Aside from the bar fight here and there. But that was aside the point.

Geralt prided himself on being a good judge of character. Jaskier was no exception. “You will have to show me what all you can do though.”

Jaskier chuckled, “Oh, I have a few tricks up my sleeves.”

“I bet you do, tree boy.” Yennefer snorted, “Let’s hope that goes well. Hey, knock on wood.”

“Ugh, Yennefer.” Jaskier rolled his eyes

#geraskier.abo #geralt x jaskier #geralt #jaskier #omegaverse #the witcher #witcher #yennefer #goodies.fics

77 notes · View notes

pynkhues · 5 years ago

Note

5 and 11 from the October prompt list! 🙃

“I might just kiss you.” / “It’s not always like this.”

+ anon prompt: Alright I know you probably have a bunch of these but I have a prompt for Playing House. Prompt: Rio has a really tough day at work(like real shitty) and Beth senses it even though he tries to put on a brave face for her and the kids. She does/plans something to make him feel special and loved.

(This was actually originally just based on your prompt, @lilliloves, but anon prompted this today and it fit wonderfully, so I hope you both don’t mind sharing!)

Set in The Centre and Circumference / Domestic Fic universe

(Early-ish. Probably three or four months after I Could Be Your Welcome + See You in the Light)

There’s blood at his knuckles.

Ain’t the first time, and he’s sure it won’t be the last, but still – he finds his gaze fixed briefly on it anyway, flexing his hand, feeling the ache in it already. His skin ain’t split though, which means the blood belongs to the guy in front of him, this wiry fuck who’s already spat out two of his teeth on the floor between them, drool oozin’ out of his mouth, so thick with blood it’s almost black, and ain’t that a picture, Rio thinks, resting back into his heels.

His gaze flicks to Demon, and it’s all it takes for him to start rolling the silencer onto his gun.

“No, please,” Vinny moans, squirming back against the chair, hiccupping, feet leavin’ smears of dirt against the concrete floor of the warehouse. “I’ve got a family, I’ve got kids.”

And sure, Rio thinks, rolling his head back towards Vinny, keepin’ his face carefully blank. There’s a chill in the air, but Rio ain’t feelin’ it, not in here, not with the heat of the fight still thunderin’ through his veins, not with the righteous fury still boilin’ in his gut because shit, none of them should even be here, none of them would if it wasn’t for Vinny. Rio raises an eyebrow, pulling his expression into a look of faux care.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, yes, they - - I have - - my eldest is barely six years old. You know Emily. She’s just started school, she - -”

“You think about her when you stole my product?” Rio asks, voice lowly drawlin’. “You think about that little girl when you took out the connect?”

At least that’s enough to shut the fucker up, leave him splutterin’ on his own blood like he’s bein’ waterboarded, and Rio just watches him. Watches the lines of his throat twitch, his blackened eye swelling shut. He remembers getting shawarma with the guy. Remembers beers at Cisco’s. Thinks he might even remember the guy’s daughter for real – blonde, dimpled, all puppy fat cute like one of his sister’s old Cabbage Patch Dolls.

Mostly though he remembers this fuckin’ trip. Remembers sending this guy, days ago, out to pick up pills from Marta in Canada only to hear that the pills were gone and Marta was dead, and this fuck was nowhere to be found, and shit.

Marta had kids too.

“Rio, man, please. I fucked up, I know that, I - -”

Rio gives Demon the nod.

Demon offers him a cigarette, but Rio shakes his head, pulling his keys out of the back pocket of his jeans as he watches Diego hurl his guts up onto the concrete a few steps away. Kid’s pretty new – can’t be much older than 21, but both Dags and Bullet had vouched for him. Said he was loyal, quiet, got the job done. They’d worked with him on one of their smaller side hustles, and Rio figured what the hell. New blood could be good for the operation. This sorta trial was always good for the new intake too – let them see what waited for ‘em if they got in their egos, if they thought they could pull one over.

And Rio had been impressed enough. The kid hadn’t complained, had helped get Vinny here, even thrown a few good punches and helped Demon clean the body of any prints or DNA before gettin’ rid of it. The vomitin’ was a good sign too, for a kid this green. Death should matter. Should scare you. It means you treat it serious. Means you ain’t cappin’ people without cause.

It’s what keeps you kickin’.

“A drink then. Fuck, I need one,” Demon says, and Rio flicks his gaze back to him. “Back to the hotel?”

And he probably should. Their rooms are already booked, paid for. They’ve been stayin’ there for a few nights – had crossed the border and holed up as soon as Rio had gotten word of Marta, knowin’ just how quick they had to move to pull Vinny out before he could burrow too deep. Knew how quickly this situation needed handlin’.

Elizabeth hadn’t liked it.

Had done that thing where she’d tried to come with him – goin’ so far this time as to pack a bag and put it in the trunk of his car, plant herself in the passenger seat, and he’d practically had to drag her outta the thing. It hadn’t been until he’d told her she needed to stay to look after the dealership, the drops, keep business runnin’ that she’d agreed (although she’d still been prickly at that).

Truth was, it hadn’t just been business – although he couldn’t exactly deny it’d been good not to have to worry about it, to trust her enough to keep it runnin’ smoothly. Hadn’t even just been about the house neither, although it had been about that too. The kids were still gettin’ used to the new house and the new routine after all, especially hers, and he’s learnt fast how quick those seeds of guilt plant in her when it comes to them, knows how easily they grow, how ripe their fruits are, had known how twisted up she’d get herself if anythin’ happened while they were in Canada and the kids were in Detroit with her sister or her friend or - - worse - - that dumbass ex of hers.

Nah, it wasn’t just that.

What it was was he didn’t like her on these jobs.

Didn’t like her reckless ass ignorin’ plans or mouthin’ off, didn’t like her stormin’ into situations like that face and that body was some sort of armor, and, hell, didn’t like none of these guys lookin’ at that face and that body. Didn’t like them seein’ her, didn’t like them standin’ so close to her, didn’t like the fact that he dreamt of it sometimes. That clenched jaw of hers, somebody else’s gun underneath it, somebody who didn’t have anythin’ stoppin’ them from pullin’ the trigger, and just - -

Shit.

Rio rubs at his head.

He does want a drink.

More than that, he wants a fuck. Wants to release this livewire of tension in him, wants to lose himself in a body underneath him, but the only body he wants is Elizabeth’s, and he could drive home tonight, but that would mean talkin’ to her. Would mean gussyin’ up to her Bambi-eyed interrogation.

She’d be in her ugly ass pyjamas, he thinks, and the picture of it comes too quickly.

Probably the ones he hates the most. The cream satin ones with those little orange flowers. Sittin’ up in their bed, nipples hard, pokin’ up through her shirt, those pale cheeks of hers flushed pink, her eyes a little wet, her hair a mess, waitin’, breathless, for him, and - -

He snorts.

Who’s he kidding?

More likely angrily scrubbin’ dishes at 2am and ready to ask him a million questions he don’t wanna answer.

Shit.

Marta and Vinny.

“You know Vinny’s family?” Rio asks, turning back towards Demon, who nods. “Send ‘em the usual?”

“50g? You wanna send it cash or wire transfer?”

Rio tilts his head from side-to-side, considering.

“Cash,” he decides. “Send a hundred to Marta’s. Deliver it in person. We’re gonna need a new connect for the pills.”

Demon just hums in affirmation, flicking ash off the end of his cigarette, before he says: “I’ll stick around a few days. Get it sorted. Take it this means it’s a no for the drink?”

Rio blinks, surprised, hadn’t even quite realised that that was what he was doing, but as soon as Demon’s said it, he knows he’s right.

Thing is, it ain’t even like Elizabeth’s the first woman he’s wanted to lose himself in after bad days, just it’s barely even about fucking her at this point. Just - - he wants to bury himself in her until she’s all he can smell, until the taste of her skin is hot on his tongue, until he’s close enough to her he can count her eyelashes, and shit, that ain’t a thought he’s used to. Ain’t even one he’s particularly comfortable with.

Just - - he thinks of another cold night in the hotel alone and tense, and then thinks about bein’ home instead, thinks of her asleep, thinks of not wakin’ her to postpone her questions and the inevitable argument, thinks of crawlin’ into bed beside her, layin’ his head on her breast, the softness of her beneath him remindin’ him of all the ways he ain’t, her heartbeat fluttering beneath his ear, the way, only half awake, she runs her nails down his scalp, the way she smooths her too-smooth fingers at the base of his neck, and it’s urgent suddenly. The need in him.

He could be there in two hours.

“Call me tomorrow, yeah? Let me know how you go? Keep Diego with you. Show ‘im the ropes.”

Demon makes an acknowledging gesture with his hand, and Rio heads out into the night.

The house is dark when he pulls up, the only light comin’ from the back porch because Elizabeth swears it makes her feel safe (like the half a million dollar security system he bought doesn’t), and it means she’s not expecting him. Means she might actually be asleep. Means maybe she took him seriously for a change when he told her to stop waitin’, stop callin’, that he’d back when it was over.

He slips into the house, disarming the security system and beelining for the laundry. He kicks his shoes off, washes his face, his bruised hands in the sink, before filling it to soak his bloodied clothes in, adding the disinfectant from the cupboard, and stripping off to his boxer briefs there and then. It had been at Elizabeth’s insistence the first time he’d done this that they add the lock to the laundry room door, just to keep the kids out, and he’s glad for it now, for the ability to leave his shirt there, reddening the water, without worry.

Running a hand over his face, he grabs a pair of sweats and a t-shirt from the pile of clean laundry in the basket, steps out, fixes himself a drink at the bar cart in the living room, finishes it there alone, trying to steady his hands, his breath, to calm his frayed nerves before he allows himself the comfort of bein’ beside her. Tries to wrestle out of the maw of the last few days, of Vinny’s slack jaw and Marta in a body bag, scrubbing briefly at his face and finishing the last of his drink before starting up the stairs towards bed.

There’s somethin’ to be said there about the moonlight through the window, the too soft glow of the night outside of here, softening everything in its path, and Elizabeth is right there in the middle of it, curled up on her side in their bed, her hair fanned out against their pillows, bags beneath her eyes like she hasn’t slept well in days, which - - fuck, somethin’ in him twists at the thought, but then – right there, nestled into her chest, is Marcus.

It’s enough to make Rio stop in the doorway, dig his arm into the doorframe, enough it might leave a mark, enough it pinches. He should leave him, he thinks, slide into bed beside ‘em and leave it be, but then - -

Vinny’s blood is thick on his hands tonight, the weight of him heavy on his back, and he needs Marcus just - - away from it. Away from him, at least until the mornin’ comes, at least until he’s had the time to put this night behind him, to wash the stench of it off, and shit, he thinks, almost crawling out of his skin, leg jittery with tension beneath him. This ain’t somethin’ to be shared, not with him.

He strides quietly over to the bed, gently tugging his son out of Elizabeth’s arms, relieved more than anything when Marcus comes easily. He lifts him up, carrying him quietly down the hall and flipping on the light to his bedroom. It’s neat at least, which makes it easy to take him down, to flip over the sheets of his bed and lower his son into them. His head’s barely hit the pillow when suddenly big, dark eyes are bein’ turned on him, the kid’s little mouth fallin’ open like a spell.

“Daddy?”

“Go to sleep, pop,” Rio hums, and when Marcus tries to sit up, he gently pushes him back down.

“You’re home!”

“Nuh, but I will be tomorrow. You’re dreamin’ right now, yeah?” he keeps his voice low, dulcet, brushes his hands through Marcus’ hair, tucking him back down beneath the covers. “Faster you fall asleep, faster you’ll wake up, faster I’ll be home.”

And he doesn’t think the kid really believes it, but still, Marcus hums sleepily, happily, back at him, his eyes driftin’ shut again and Rio just - - watches him. Watches the rise and fall of his chest and the flutter of his eyelashes and he thinks how easily he could never see it again, like Marta won’t, like Vinny, and just - - shit.

He rubs a hand hard over the back of his head.

Not worth thinkin’ about now, he tells himself, slipping back out of his bedroom and heading back towards his own. It’s only then that the exhaustion really catches up with him – hits him square between the shoulders like somethin’ out of a cartoon, and he swipes at his forehead as he heads back towards their bed, gaze only flicking up to see Elizabeth sleepin’ soundly, the soft curve of her body like an invitation, and his eyes travel too easily down her, from her peaceful face to the arc of her shoulder and the dip of her waist, the long trail of her legs and - - he just - -

Stops.

There’s a lump at the foot of their bed, tangled up in the sheets, and Rio steps slowly towards it, eyeing off the mound of it when the lump squirms back suddenly, and shit, Rio thinks. He rolls his eyes, reaches for the blankets, lifting it just in time to see Jane peer back up at him, dubby in her fist, her little face scrunched up, half hidden in a bunny rabbit onesie and it must be a hand-me-down from Emma, because she’s swimmin’ in it.

“’ey,” he hums, and Jane blinks up at him, bright eyed, before she pants like a dog, wiggles her butt, goes to bark, but Rio frowns, pushes a finger to his lips and jerks his head to where Elizabeth is sleeping.

“Don’t wake your mama up. C’mon.”

He holds his hands out for her to leap into, only she pulls her face into a little scowl, shaking her head.

“No,” Jane growls, and Rio rolls his eyes again, frustration sparking in his belly.

“I ain’t playin’, darlin’, c’mon. It’s way past bedtime.”

And Jane just - - shit, she sticks out her tongue, and Rio exhales sharply, feels the stress of the day and the exhaustion of tonight press hard at his temples, but he smooths out his expression as best he can, reachin’ over to her, only she’s trying to tangle herself up in her mother’s legs, and Jesus, Elizabeth must be real tired if this don’t even wake her. Before Jane can get herself too wrapped up, Rio moves closer, pluckin’ her out of bed by the back of her onesie and pulling her unceremoniously away from Elizabeth.

He intends to lift her straight up into his arms and walk her to bed like he’d just done Marcus, but Jane starts thrashin’ the second she’s in the air, and shit, Rio grunts and then he’s gotta loosen his grip or he might accidentally hurt her, but loosenin’ his grip only serves to make Jane spring off the bed and sprint down the hallway in a flurry of pink fleece and animal ears. Behind him, Elizabeth stirs, and Rio’s head whips around, waiting for her to resettle before he moves quietly to the doorway. Jane’s standing at the top of the stairs, her little face peering out from beneath her bunny rabbit hood, and Rio frowns at her, gesturing his head to her bedroom.

Jane shakes her own head furiously in reply, and Rio exhales sharply, stepping out into the hallway, unsurprised when Jane retaliates by clutching at the railing and starting down the stairs, and shit, he thinks, picking up his step. The booties on her pyjamas are so big she’s gonna trip herself up, tumble head-first over them. He moves quickly enough to grab her underneath the arms and when she starts to yelp and thrash again, he spins her quickly in his arms, until they’re practically nose-to-nose.

“What’d you want?” he asks her, staring her down, because shit, his nerves ain’t here for tantrums tonight, and Jane just looks back at him, long and hard, little jaw rockin’, and this kid really is somethin’ else, and as much as he hates to admit it, if he were in a better mood, he might be amused.

“Special drink,” Jane settles on, and Rio arches an eyebrow at her, about to tell her it ain’t the time, but then - - shit, Elizabeth’s concoction of milk heated on the stove, honey, cloves and cinnamon really does seem to knock ‘em out. Maybe he can ground in a Nyquil to help.

“Then you go to your bed?”

Jane nods, and Rio does too, resignedly pushing her onto his hip and taking the stairs two at a time until he hits the bottom. He thinks about just depositing Jane on the couch, lettin’ her watch somethin’ bland and g-rated on the TV, but then he doesn’t really trust her not to sneak up the stairs, back beneath Elizabeth’s arm, and if she gets there again, Rio’s knows he’s gonna be subjectin’ himself to the couch.

So he deposits her on a stool at the kitchen island instead, glancing around the kitchen only to stop when he spots the pot on the stove and the spice packets already on the bench. He walks over, grabbing the pot and looking at the thin rim of milk build-up cooked into the sides of it.

“Looks like your mama already made special drink,” he says, rinsing out the pot and Jane just shakes her head.

“She made it for Marcus, not me,” Jane tells him. “She always makes it, so it’s not special anymore. It’s just regular drink.”

Rio arches an eyebrow, glancing back at her.

“That right?” he asks. “But it’s special drink when I make it?”

“Yup.”

And shit, she might be right. He ain’t ever made it before, and at least the fact that Elizabeth’s already made it for Marcus tonight means the ingredients are there for him. He racks his head for the steps, for the muscle memory of havin’ watched her make this thing a million times before, and - - right, milk on the stove. He grabs a jug from the fridge.

“Your hand looks funny.”

Rio glances over at Jane as he moves to flick the stove on, that damn blanket of hers half shoved in her mouth, the floppy rabbit ears of her hood hangin’ down past her shoulder. He looks at his hand and the bruises really are bad – a dark, bloomin’ purple that he knows will only stiffen over the next few days. Will swell and throb and he resists the urge to shake it out.

“Yeah?” he asks, and Jane rocks her head from side-to-side, considering.

“It’s like when I felled over. Did you felled over?”

“Fall,” he corrects, and when he looks over at her, Jane’s blinking at him in confusion, her blue eyes wide, her lips parted. He clarifies: “Did you fall over? Not felled, darlin’.”

“Did you fall over?” Jane echoes, and Rio turns back to the milk on the stove, reaching for the cinnamon. He looks at his knuckles as he shakes in the spice, and wonders if he should’ve worn gloves, somethin’ that might’ve covered them from view.

“Somethin’ like that,” he replies, capping the spice cannister, and it takes Jane a minute to reply, like she’s processin’ it, workin’ out what she want to say, and Rio lets her, his gaze fixed down on the way the cinnamon turns the colour of the milk, brownin’ it up. He blinks and sees the cinnamon, he blinks and he sees the blood on Vinny’s pale cheek.

He grabs the packet of cloves.

“Is that why you went away?”

Shit, how much of this stuff does Elizabeth usually put in? He shoves a finger into the packet of cloves, nudging them around, and finally scoops out a handful, watchin’ them bob around in the milk.

“What’d your mama say?”

“That you had to work.”

“Your mama ever lied to you?”

“No.”

“So I was workin’,” he tells her easily, glancing back around to look at her, and it ain’t exactly sudden, seein’ Emily in Jane’s place, propped up at the kitchen island, but it still takes him by surprise, makes him rock his jaw, jerk his head away, try to focus on the simmer of the milk and the sound of Jane’s feet, thumpin’ against the chair.

Jane ain’t Emily, she ain’t gonna lose a parent to this. She -

“When my daddy goes away for work, he brings us presents home,” Jane says, and Rio snorts.

Okay, maybe she’ll lose one parent to this. Rio can’t exactly say he’s keepin’ Dean off any lists. Shit, might be addin’ him to a few. (Not really, although - - he ain’t rulin’ it out). Still, he shifts his weight back, grabbing a spoon to scoop in some honey.

“Yeah? Like what?”

“Like candy or dollies.”

The honey oozes off the spoon into the milk, like Vinny’s bloodied drool to the concrete floor, and Rio’s voice is duller than he means when he says:

“Huh. Why you think he do that?”

Jane pauses, and the question must surprise her, her little mouth hangin’ open for a moment, until she shoves the dubby in it instead. Rio has to resist the urge to tug it out, had made that mistake only a few weeks after movin’, had had to endure Jane’s hysterics and Beth’s frustration (“She only started doing it after Dean moved out, it comforts her, just - - leave it, please.”)

“I don’t know,” Jane replies now around a mouthful of blanket, and Rio hums, grabbing her sippy cup off the strainer and pouring in the milk, making sure it’s not too hot in the process. He puts the top on, and glances at her, considering. He could just give it to her here, but in the end he holds up his hands, and Jane moves easily into them this time, lets him carry her to the couch, lets him hold her as he flops down on it, her body sideways in his lap, cradled in his arms like he’d do when Marcus was a toddler, like he still does sometimes, when he’s sick or needy.

And it’s funny, coz Jane fits like Marcus used to. Kid had a growth spurt recently after all, overtakin’ even Emma, and it all serves to make Jane all the tinier. Like her aunt, Rio thinks, briefly amused, then – more so, huffing out a laugh – like her mama when she finally pulls her pumps off at the end of the night.

(How big are Marta’s kids? Does he even know?)

“Order’s up,” he tells Jane, passing her the cup and letting her wriggle up until she’s practically using his arm as a hammock, her legs sprawled out across his own. She takes a generous drink only to reel slightly up.

“Yuck,” she says, spluttering, and Rio groans looking down at her, grabbing the cup and taking a sip, only to cough because shit - - it’s bad. Way too much cinnamon, enough it tastes almost like ash in his mouth, and maybe he’ll just leave it out entirely this time. Can’t fuck up just milk and honey, can he? He moves to get up, to make another, when Jane suddenly snatches at the cup again, clutching the sippy to her chest before shoving the nozzle back into her mouth. “No, I like it.”

And figures, Rio thinks, arching an eyebrow down at her as she wriggles back against his chest, sucking on the sippy cup, her eyes already half-lidded. He feels his own lids drop too, like they’re playin’ some game of Simon Says (go to sleep), and he could almost doze himself when Jane reaches the hand not holdin’ the cup out to his. She pushes out a tiny pointer finger and taps him on each of his bruised knuckles and he just - - watches her do it. Watches this scrap of Elizabeth play the hand he broke Vinny’s jaw with like a piano.

“Marcus and mommy are upset at you,” she says suddenly, half muffled around the sippy cup, and Rio’s gaze shifts from their hands to her face, but she ain’t lookin’ at him. She’s lookin’ at their hands, and after a minute, he sighs.

“I know,” he tells her. “They don’t like it when I gotta go away like that. I don’t like it neither, but sometimes I just gotta.”

Jane sucks the nozzle back into her mouth, staring up at him now, her eyes unblinkin’, and he always thinks it’s her sister that looks most like Elizabeth, but this one doesn’t go without, not with the steadiness of her gaze and the set to her jaw.

“It’s three,” she tells him, and Rio blinks down at her.

“What’s three?”

“Three times you gone away.”

Whatever he was expecting, it wasn’t that, and Rio stares at her, unblinking now, as Jane holds up her hand.

“Just after we moved here,” she ticks it off on her fingers. “Then the other time, now this time. That’s three.”

And shit, she ain’t wrong. He mostly thought Jane barely noticed. Not like anyone would ever mistake her for the most perceptive of Elizabeth’s kids (not that any of ‘em really are), but Jane’s all energy and distraction and shit. He’s been busy. He’s always busy, and Marcus has never liked it. Never liked the fact that sometimes he just gotta move, gotta bring things back, gotta handle things, but - -

“It’s not always like this,” he says, and Jane looks up at him, and there are too many expressions that pass over her round little face – disbelief and childish frustration until it finally settles on somethin’ else, somethin’ softer, less certain, somethin’ he ain’t seen on her face, at least not somethin’ he’s seen directed at him.

“You didn’t say bye,” she says finally, her voice small, and Rio exhales, annoyed.

“I did, darlin’,” because he did. Shit, got to fight about it with Elizabeth and leave Marcus red faced and weepy, made sure of that, but then - -

He looks at Jane and any self-righteousness dies on his tongue.

“Not to you though, huh?” he says softly, and Jane shuffles back into his arm, presses her forehead into his chest, out of sight, the nozzle of the sippy cup sucked into her mouth like a bottle, keeps herself looking away from him, and Rio exhales. He looks down at his bruised hands, then at her feet, where the booties of her onesie hang limply down the side of the couch, her feet lost somewhere in the legs of the thing, the hood of it hangin’ so far down her face it almost covers her eyes, and he reaches up to tug it back, just enough he can see her.

“’m sorry. Think maybe I’m still gettin’ used to this,” he says, because he hadn’t said goodbye to any of Elizabeth’s kids. Had trusted her to do it for him, had treated them like they were just a part of her, but - -

They ain’t.

They’re - -

Well.

Fuck.

Jane looks up at him, her eyes a little glassy and just - - he ain’t sure what that is, the feelin’ in his gut, hollowing itself out. “Can you be the first one I say hey to instead?”

She makes a show of turnin’ it over, her squirming against his chest and drinkin’ that goddamn awful drink he’s made her, but then she nods, and Rio tugs on one of her rabbit ears.

“’ey, Jane,” he says quietly. “You been good for your mama while I been gone?”

And she grins a little at that, shakes her head into his chest again, giggling before she can stop herself, and Rio smiles too, but rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

He almost reaches out to her, but before he gets the chance to, Jane wriggles up his body, curls her arms around his neck, and Rio leans down, scooping her up closer, feeling her collapse sleepily into his chest, still slurping at that drink, and hell if that ain’t commitment. He exhales a laugh, dropping a hand to her back, and it practically takes up the width of it, and he can’t say what he feels, feelin’ the rise and fall of her chest against his, her snufflin’ breaths against his shoulder.

And it’s hard enough, but then he exhales and he hears Vinny’s last one, and his hand tightens on her back, and he just - -

Needs to put her to bed.

Needs her safe and happy and dreamin’ of her mama and Paw Patrol and out of his nightmares, and when he stands up this time, starts up the stairs, when he finally does put her to bed, she don’t make a sound.

And then just, tuckin’ her in - - all his energy’s gone, sapped out of him, and any jittery tension he’d needed to lose has gone cold in his chest, left him pulled thin and stretched out, and shit, he thinks, rubbing furiously at his forehead, it’s just - -

Just is, he reminds himself.

There wasn’t a way around it. Not a way that’d keep him and his safe.

And he can do this for his ma, he can do it for his sisters, he can do it for his son.

Can do it for Elizabeth and her kids too.

Can - - he exhales, leavin’ the thought alone, pulling his hand away from his face, grabbin’ the sippy cup from Jane’s iron grip instead and droppin’ it to her bedside table so it don’t soak through her sheets, flickin’ on her nightlight before slipping out of her room.

And it figures, that Elizabeth would be awake now, when he finally gets back to their (freshly) childfree bedroom, her blue eyes blinkin’ sleepily back at him, from her - -

Nah, he realises, his pillow.

“You put the kids to bed?” she whispers, pushing herself up onto her elbow, and Rio nods stripping off his t-shirt, arching his back, hearing it crack.

“You’re home earlier than I thought you’d be,” she adds, and Rio nods, padding over to the bed. He should leave his sweats on, knows he should, but for whatever reason, he can’t quite make himself. Just wants to be rid of them, rid of his underwear, rid of all of it. Wants to shower, but doesn’t have the energy to, so instead he just strips everythin’ off, sliding into bed beside Elizabeth.

She doesn’t complain for a change, doesn’t squawk or pout or nag him to put his clothes back on. She just watches him, her blue eyes too clear, her features drawn.

“Is it done?” she asks, and Rio sighs.

“Would I be home if it weren’t?”

It’s sharper than he means it to be and she looks a little wounded, and Rio exhales, because shit, he’s the one who don’t want this fight. Just looks at her for a moment, and it ain’t fair, that she can look this sweet, that her eyes and her body can sing like a siren in the night, callin’ for him across borders, across countries, callin’ him home, and he reaches a hand to touch her face because he wants to - - needs to feel her, but shit, it was the wrong move, because she’s gaspin’, grabbin’ his hand instead, a high-pitched sound escaping her throat when she sees how bruised it is.

“Let me see it.”

He yanks his hand out of her grip, curling it around her waist instead, pulling her beneath him, entangling their legs, hidin’ his hand half up her pyjama shirt.

“Are you hurt?” she asks, and he can tell she wants to squirm out of his grip, to try and flip ‘em over so she can look at him properly, find somethin’ to nurse, but she ain’t got a clue how hurt he actually is, so won’t do it, and for once, he don’t want to correct her.

“Keep askin’ questions and I might just have to kiss you,” he drawls, the to shut you up implied as he nestles his face into her chest, nosing between the buttons on her pyjama shirt so forcefully that the tip of it brushes the inner curve of her breast, inhaling deeply the faint smell of sweat and peach bodywash and that smell beneath it all that’s just her.

“You say that like it’s a threat,” she replies, the words light, jokin’, but her tone ain’t real, and he knows she’d let him, but he also knows she don’t want him to. That she’d give him sex tonight like a gift, and that’s not how he wants this, not with her, not now. He just - -

Shit, he just wants to hold her, but he don’t know how the fuck to say that.

She inhales above him, a little wet, a little damp, like she might be cryin’ a bit, and she says, “Rio, what – ”

He sucks in a breath, clenches his eyes shut, hand tightening on her waist.

“Not tonight, darlin’,” he says, his voice hoarse, cutting her off, and then - - because how can he say the rest of it? He just says: “Please.”

The word hangs between them, and then it’s those too-soft fingers of hers, pressin’ tentatively to the back of his neck, and he exhales, harsh and wet against her breast, sinking his head heavily down against her chest, his mouth open as her fingers firm there and he knows she’ll be back on this shit tomorrow, that he’ll have to tell her somethin’, that he’ll have to make sure that money gets to Marta’s kids and to Vinny’s, that the compensation will be nothin’ but he lets Elizabeth massage the guilt out of his neck for now and finally he lets his eyelids flutter shut.

#beth x rio #prompt fills #the center and circumference #domesticity #beth boland #rio #marcus #jane boland #my fic

41 notes · View notes

eeveedel · 5 years ago

Note

PLS WRITE SUMN W CHUBBY ALPHA HARRY.. MAAM.....

okayyyyy :)

This is literally the most wild drabble I’ve ever written, I loved this idea and then on Twitter I got some food kink requests so here we are.

Please be advised his fic contains adult content intended for 18+ audiences, as well as chubby/fat kink and sexual feeding. If that at all makes you uncomfortable or is triggering to you please don’t read. If you’re interested, then enjoy some unedited stupid boys, rushed and messy sex, and a dumb ending xo

–

Pool parties were Louis’s favorite part of summer.

Aside from the chance it gave him to survive the summer heat wave by mooching off his much richer friend’s pool, parties like this also gave him an excuse to wear his dumbest swimsuits, like the palm-leaf covered Speedo he had chosen today. He loved nothing more than doing sloppy, half-remembered flips off the diving board and draping himself over one of Liam and Zayn’s stupid novelty pool floaties while he let the sun deepen his tan, all while letting as much of his body as possible be shown off in his tin swimwear.

Most of all, he liked doing all that while feeling his alpha’s gaze on him.

Louis shifted on the hot pink inflatable pool chair he had planted himself on, and looked at the side of the pool.

Harry had laid down in one of the poolside loungers, bone dry and drinking a beer while he watched Louis in the pool.

He looked fucking delicious. He always did, but something about the sight of Louis’s alpha in an old swimsuit, his round, soft belly flopping a little over the waistband, made him feel hot all over.

Louis should be used to his boyfriend’s body enough to not almost get a stiffy in public over it, and yet here they were. He had first met Harry over a year and a half ago, when Harry had spilled his rum and Cherry Coke all over Louis’s new white shirt at Niall’s annual Christmas party. Louis had cursed him out thoroughly before actually looking up and immediately going quiet at the gaze of a tall, warm-looking alpha in front of me. An alpha who also was sporting a sizable beer gut belly under a very old looking t-shirt, which made Louis’s chest warm up for some reason.

After gazing at his alpha for a few more moments, Louis rolled off the floatie and into the water. He swam over to the nearest pool ladder so he could climb out, and then once he was out of the pool he promptly flopped down on the lounge chair with Harry. Immediately, put his arms around the alpha’s middle and his chin on Harry’s shoulder, giving his round cheek a kiss.

“Hi, alpha,” Louis giggled, throwing a leg over Harry’s lap. Harry smiled at him, his sunglasses dipping down his nose so he could give Louis a full, bright green glance.

“Hey, baby,” he said, skimming his fingers over Louis’s dripping wet skin, “You want a towel?”

“No, I think I’ll air dry,” Louis said, “Mind if I stay here?”

Harry kissed the side of Louis’s head and squeezed his hip.

“Not at all.”

Louis smiled and snuggled into Harry’s shoulder, absentmindedly rubbing his hand over his alpha’s sun-warmed skin.

Zayn and Niall had taken up the loungers next to Harry’s own chair, both of them looking half-asleep and at least a little burned. A minute later, Liam emerged from the sliding glass door at the back of his grossly huge house to hand Zayn a beer and give the omega a kiss. Then he sat down on the last free lounger, lifting up a glass of clear liquid and lime rinds to his lips.

“Liam,” Niall said, “Is that tequila? At two in the afternoon?[if !supportLineBreakNewLine][endif]

Liam shrugged and nodded.

“Yup,” Liam said, “I’m cutting out glutton for the summer. No beer.”

“Fine, but tequila? Straight ass tequila?” Niall argued.

“It’s better than you think!”

Niall grunted at that, sliding his sunglasses up to rest in his sun-bleached hair.

“Whatever. You’re always on some weird fucking health kick. Last year you ate that weird cold salad out of a Ziploc bag all of June.”

“It’s called farro, and it did wonders to my bum, I’ll have you know.”

Liam took another sip of his tequila, and then smiled at all of them.

“You know, I’m thinking of do P90X again, too,” he announced, “I’m trying to start a little club to do it in the afternoons, make it easier.”

“P90X?” Niall repeated, “The fuck is this, 2009?”

“Fuck off, it’s still effective,” Liam scoffed.

“Well, count me out,” Niall said.

“Yeah, babe, you know I’m not doing that,” Zayn added, making Liam sigh.

“God, whatever,” he turned to Harry, pointing at him with his beer bottle, “Styles? You in?”

“No thanks,” Harry shrugged.

“Oh, come on,” Liam laughed, “No offense man, but you could use it more than any of us. You really let yourself go since uni.”

Harry snorted, taking another swig of his beer.

“I’m alright right now, thanks,” Harry said, and squeezed Louis’s hip, “Besides, Louis’s not really into six packs, are you baby?”

Louis blushed, and prodded Harry with an elbow.

So maybe Harry was right. Louis had seen pictures of Harry when he was in university, when he probably weighed less than Louis.; knew exactly what Liam was referring to when he said Harry had let himself go a little bit. Harry had once told him that he reckoned he had gained about 40 pounds in beer, take out, and office job laziness since then, but he never seemed upset by that. And while Louis could appreciate pictures of Harry’s old physique, it didn’t hold a candle for him compared to what his boyfriend looked like now.

But just because he had a kink for his boyfriend being chubby didn’t mean their entire friend group needed it spelled out for them.

“Shut up,” he grumbled.

Harry chuckled, and drained his bottle.

“Speaking of six packs,” he said, “Louis, baby, can you go get me another beer?”

“Isn’t that like your fourth today?” Niall said, “How are you drinking more than me and you’re not even buzzed?”

Harry patted the side of his belly with a smirk.

“Higher alcohol tolerance,” he said, “Guess it comes with letting yourself go.”

Louis flushed again, and then peeled himself away from Harry’s side, giving him a kiss on the cheek.

“I’ll go grab that beer for you, babe,” Louis said. He got to his feet, looking at everyone else, “You guys need anything?”

“I need you not to cream yourself on my patio,” Zayn jutted in.

“Fuck you,” Louis snapped, and then grabbed the handle of the sliding glass door.

“Hey, Liam, remember when you ate six bananas a day for a month in uni and ended up in the hospital with B12 deficiency?” Niall asked from behind him, which made Liam scoff angrily and then begin ranting about something he had read in a fitness journal that month.

Louis glanced behind him, and was just able to catch Harry looking at him over his shoulder. The alpha gave him a wink, a grin spreading on his face to make a dimple form in one of his padded cheeks.

Louis swallowed thickly and went inside.

–

They got home late, after the boys had talked them into a few more beers and kicking a football around Liam and Zayn’s backyard. By the end, Louis was bone tired, and he nearly had to drag himself through the front door of his own house, his ass still squeezed into his wet Speedo and his arms held down by several containers of leftovers.

He flicked on the kitchen light, Harry close behind him as he opened the fridge to put the leftovers inside.

“That was fun,” Louis said, looking over at his boyfriend.

“It was,” Harry sighed, slumping against the wall. His hands found their way to his stomach, and he rubbed it in slow, gentle circles, “M’fucking stuffed, though.”

He patted his middle, and it sounded firm and hollow. Louis just looked at him, trying to keep his breath normal. Harry was staring at him in the same firm way he had been looking at Louis swimming in the pool. He looked gorgeous, with his long hair tied up and his skin healthy and glowing from the sun. He was wearing the shirt he had put on once they were done at the pool; a yellow Hawaiian shirt covered in green and pink palm leaves. The bottom two buttons were tight against his middle, a bit of his tan skin showing through where the fabric didn’t quite cover him.

“Oh,” Louis said, “Uh – had a bit too much, huh?”

“Oh, yeah,” Harry grinned, “Can’t tell what was the mistake, that third burger or all that potato salad you brought me.”

He patted his belly again, and Louis turned away. He tried to ignore how his traitor of a cock was already chubbing up.

“Don’t do that.”

“Don’t do what?” Harry arched an eyebrow.

“Don’t talk about how full you are.”

“What, I am?” Harry said. He sighed fully, and his belly pushed out. He stroked his hand up the line of buttons that ran down his front. “Hope I don’t pop one of these, I think this shirt.”

“Harry, shut your fucking mouth, I need to take a shower,” Louis snapped, his face already turning red. He snapped the fridge closed and tried to walk past, but Harry grabbed his wrist.

“Do you?”

“Yes, I have chlorine in my hair, it’ll be so dry in the morning if I don’t condition it,” Louis said, “That’s basic science.”

It made Harry laugh, and he let go of Louis’s wrist.

“M’kay, baby,” Harry chuckled, “I’ll be in our room when you’re all done.”

Louis nearly jogged away, slipping into their room and then into their en-suite. He took off his shorts and t-shirt, tossing his Speedo into the sink to soak. He was already half-hard and he cursed weakly as he turned the shower on.

Fucking fuck his beautiful, thick alpha. Fucking fuck his own kink. Fuck all of it. He just needed a shower.

He scrubbed his body and hair down quickly, avoiding his dick entirely. He felt wetness between his cheeks that certainly did not come from the showerhead, and he whimpered as he finished up. Quickly, the water was shut off, and Louis almost tripped getting out of the shower. He wrapped his slender waist in a towel and tried to dab at his soaking hair with a washcloth. When it was no longer dripping all over his shoulders, he shook his head hard, trying to clear his thoughts, before he stepped into the bedroom.

Any thoughts of clearing his thoughts were vanquished when he came into the bedroom.

Harry was there, as promised, sitting up in their California king in just in his black briefs, his full beer belly spilling into his lap and his love handles curving over the briefs’ elastic. He was scrolling through his phone, but he looked up and tossed the device away when Louis walked in. Harry grinned and stretched an arm over his head, showing tattoos that had long faded and stretched out with his arm’s growing width.

“Louis,” Harry said, “Perfect timing.”

“Is it,” Louis said weakly.

“Yeah,” Harry said, and then, the treacherous fucking bastard stuck a thumb into his belly button and grabbed the bottom half of his belly with his other four fingers and shook himself, making his stomach jiggle, “Was just thinking I’m not as full as I was a few minutes ago.”

Louis felt his fingers weaken their grip on the towel and it fell down onto the floor, leaving him naked.

“Oh, yeah?” he asked.

“Mm hm,” Harry hummed, “Think I could go for some dessert. Could you get me something?”

Oh, this bitch. This fucking bitch.

“Sure thing,” Louis agreed, his neck warming, “How about some of those brownies Niall made?”

“That sounds great,” Harry agreed.

“Well,” Louis said, his throat feeling tight, “Let me just go grab that.”

He nearly sprinted out of the room and into the kitchen. Once he was there, his mind was already racing. He grabbed the Tupperware full of the brownies, which were already caramel covered and iced with little frosting flowers. They were probably enough on his own, but he just tucked the container under one arm and kept exploring the fridge.

Harry wanted to play dirty, get Louis riled up and then decide that tonight was a good time for a feeding and a fucking, which he knew made Louis lose his mind. So Louis was going to do better than some leftover brownies.

After rummaging for a bit, Louis picked up a canister of whipped cream, a bottle of chocolate syrup, and the half-gallon of milk they had their fridge. He shut the fridge door with his knee, and managed to carry his haul back to their room.

Once he was back, Harry watched him with interest, and Louis deposited all the food on the bed before he climbed up himself. He sat with his legs bracketing Harry’s legs, the alpha’s warm stomach touching his own.

“Here are your brownies, gorgeous,” he said, picking up the Tupperware and cracking up open. He picked one off the top, holding it out, “Open up.”

Harry opened his mouth, and Louis gently fed him the dessert, his mouth growing drier at how Harry ate without losing eye contact with Louis.

When Harry had the last bite in his mouth, Louis pulled his hand away and licked at his fingers.

“How is it?” the omega asked.

“Mm,” Harry hummed, and then spoke with his mouth still full, “I think it could use something extra.”

“Well, you’re in luck.”

Louis grabbed the whipped cream from his side, holding it up for Harry to see. He shook up the cold canister, and then tipped it upside down, angling it towards Harry’s face.

“You want some, baby?” he asked, his hand already pressed on the nozzle.

“You know I do, honey.”

Harry opened his mouth and Louis nodded, then put the nozzle on Harry’s tongue and pressed. He pressed until the alpha’s mouth was overflowing with whipped cream. Then he brought his mouth down, lapping up some of the cream from Harry’s mouth and then kissing the alpha’s sugar-covered mouth. Harry moaned as he kissed Louis back, his hands reaching back to grab at Louis’s bum. Louis bounced a bit, his ass shaking Harry’s hands.

Louis pulled away after a few moments, and then smiled again.

“Were those brownies chocolate-y enough, alpha?” Louis asked.

“Could be a little more,” Harry said, “Niall skimped on the cocoa powder, I think.”

“That bastard,” Louis laughed, “I would never do that to you.”

He reached for the chocolate sauce then, opening it up and then tipping it into Harry’s mouth. A little spilled over Harry’s lips and chin as Louis squeezed it along Harry’s tongue. Louis quickly closed the bottle and swooped in, licking the sugary sweetness off of Harry. Harry groaned again, his hands squeezing harder at Louis’s bum. The omega gasped against his lips, and he reached down, holding onto Harry’s belly and jiggling it a little.

Harry’s moan turned into a weak growl, but Louis just pulled away from the kiss and smiled at his alpha, grabbing the half gallon of milk.

“Something to wash that down, alpha?” he asked.

Harry watched him with careful eyes, his gaze flashing.

“Sure,” he said.

He opened his mouth again, and Louis tipped the carton to his lips, a little inevitably spilling on his chin and his chest.

“Oops,” Louis giggled when it spilled, “Clumsy me.”

He screwed the milk carton shut, and then went to work, licking the milk off Harry’s chin and then down on his soft chest. He held onto his boyfriend’s love handles while he did, and Harry just groaned above him.

Louis was just getting to licking at one of Harry’s dark, wide nipples when the alpha grabbed the omega by his hair and yanked his head up.

Louis squeaked in surprise, his eyes going a bit wide as he looked up at Harry’s dark eyes. Harry smiled at him, the expression a bit too soft for his eyes, and then he adjusted his hips and grabbed at his own crotch.

“You want some dessert now too, baby?”

Louis snorted.

“You are a horrible, evil alpha,” Louis said, “Of course I do.”

Harry grinned, then pulled his hard cock out of his briefs, giving it a few unneeded tugs. His fingers then went to grab at Louis’s bum, pulling his cheeks apart and slipping his fingers inside. He fingered Louis quickly and messily, making the omega whine loudly as he did so. Then Harry was lifting him up roughly and planting him down on his cock.

Louis yelped, and then started bouncing, burying his face in Harry’s shoulder as he did. He smelled like rich, spiced wood mixed with the scent of sugar that had come from their dessert, and Louis whimpered at the smell, licking Harry’s shoulder. He kept his hips bouncing, and Harry held a hand on his bum, giving him a squeeze as he moved.

“Such a good omega,” Harry said, “Takes such good care of me. Keeps me well fed and everything.”

Louis whined, nipping at Harry’s skin. He wanted his mouth filled somehow.

Harry’s hips bucked, and Louis yelped as he felt the alpha’s cock jab harder into him. He felt Harry’s big, powerful body move under him, his belly shaking and heaving as he moved. Harry was grunting, the sounds deep and labored by the food in his belly. It only made Louis whine higher in his throat, and he brought his hands up, clawing his blunt nails on Harry’s furry chest. He pulled his mouth off Harry’s shoulder, his jaw a bit sore and his mouth dry as he spoke.

“M’so glad you’re my alpha,” he said, “Glad I don’t have an alpha like Liam. Just want an alpha I can feed and spoil all I want.”

Harry chuckled at that, kissing Louis sweetly despite still pounding into him hard. When he pulled away he slapped his own belly, the sound loud and sharp, and Louis almost cried. He felt more slick pour out of him, and he bit his lip.

“You spoil me so good, sweetheart,” Harry said, his voice deep and nearly a growl. He bucked his hips up, and Louis yelped again, “You want my knot?”

“Yes,” Louis hiccupped, “Oh, god, please.”

“Yeah, I know what you need,” Harry said, still fucking into Louis, “You like a big alpha with a big knot, huh?”

“H – Harry,” Louis gasped, and then squeaked weakly as Harry moaned under him, and he felt a knot start to expand himself him. His thin body shook, and he felt himself coming, a mess all over Harry’s bloated stomach.

Harry held and kissed him as Louis sat tied on his knot, and Louis just hung onto him, scenting himself against Harry’s neck and whining. Harry kissed his neck gently, calling him a good boy and a good omega, and Louis clung to Harry tightly, feeling his own release dry between them.

When Harry’s knot was deflated Louis climbed off his alpha with shaky legs, clearing the bed of Harry’s late-night snacks.

“Leave those,” Harry said when Louis started to get off the bed with it.

“The milk needs to go in the fridge, asshole,” Louis mumbled, but still struggled to waddle out of the room with his shaky legs and sore ass. He put the food away as quickly as he could, and then he was right back in his room, his body cuddling up next to Harry. The alpha rubbed them both down with a washcloth, and then wrapped a thick arm around Louis, giving him a kiss on the top of the head.

“Thanks for my snack, baby,” he said, and Louis giggled. He reached his hand up, rubbing over the tight skin of Harry’s belly, and it made the alpha moan in appreciation.

“God, I still wonder where the fuck you came from,” Harry said, “How did I get so lucky with you?”

Louis shrugged, snuggling deeper in Harry’s soft side.

“M’lucky,” he mumbled, and he meant it. Here, next to his big, soft alpha, he felt safe and at home, pretty satiated and content.

And he would be ready to give Harry whatever he wanted in the morning, whether it was breakfast or something more.

#larry fanfiction #larry stylinson fanfic #one direction fanficition #drabbles #chubby 1d #this is 3k I'm gonna yeet myself #sorry mom sorry dad sorry pastor robert #grandelarrys #ask #thick alpha

71 notes · View notes

kyaada · 6 years ago

Text

Marketing Belly Master Bait

by kyaada

Ever since Barrett started working at Chunk’s in the mall, he’d developed a bit of a cult following. Barrett’s collection of too-tight tee shirts never failed to highlight every succulent bump and bulge, and the tops combined with packed skinny jeans never failed to impress. Barrett had the most amazing pair of bubbled buns sitting atop mature tree trunk-sized thighs, finished off with meaty calf muscles. Of course, his immaculate fade and neatly trimmed beard gave him a timeless look of masculinity to his handsome features, deep blue eyes, and pearly white smile. When Chunk’s manager realized what a draw his recently hired ex-military muscled hunk had become, he immediately put him in the window-- so to speak.

After Barrett had finished his main tasks, the manager would set him up in a front table alongside the main walkway with one of the biggest sandwiches. Chunk’s was known for their huge stacked sandwiches and fresh breads, warning patrons that they may need to loosen their belts to finish one of the enormous two-handed sammies. The live eating demo was effective in drawing in a variety of customers. At the beginning of the sandwich, lady shoppers would file in to gawk at the handsome young stud while they’d split their lunch and still take half home. Near the end of the sandwich, Barrett would slow down a bit and labor as his stomach filled to the top. His tight tee shirt couldn’t hide his brawny tight bulge, and he’d just lazily lean back in his chair, giving up the thought of sucking it in. The post-sandwich advertisement would draw in the fat hungry dudes looking for a nice full gut, and Barrett would inspect them like cattle as they’d pile in for a good feeding.

A couple of months passed, and Barrett couldn’t help but notice how difficult it had become to squeeze into this hot jeans, much less get them buttoned. The big 6’2” ex-military hunk would stand in front of his bathroom mirror rotating around to inspect his budding love handles and protruding belly, still flexing his biceps to validate his manliness. Barrett would grope each of his pecs with satisfaction, causing each of his nipples to poke out against his tighter tee shirt.

One day, Barrett went into work to find that his manager had decided to double his demo time by having him eat two of the smaller sandwiches, which together summed up to about one and a half of the biggest ones he’d been regularly devouring. Initially, Barrett wasn’t too sure about the idea since he’d already fought especially hard with his top jeans button that morning. The manager upped the ante with two extra-special sandwiches for him, and Barrett happily gorged himself on the thick and meaty deli treats. The manager didn’t want him to have Barrett leave his feeding station for anything, so he brought him several Coke refills to keep washing down seemingly endless sandwich. The manager even brought him a couple of their popular side salads because the big beefer was getting so swollen.

Business was especially good that day late in that lunch rush as lustful fat guys lined up for large sandwiches, drawn in by the potbellied poster boy in front. Barrett just sat there like a god with his thick thighs pushed apart, shoulders back, and his stretched-taut belly bulging out from his marbled beefy pecs to his excruciatingly tight jeans waistband. Barrett applied both of his hands to his blown-up round belly and alternated pushing in with rubbing on each side of the prominent bulge. The big overfed stud breathed shallowly due to how much room his stomach was taking away from his lungs, and he managed a few choice belches that brought in some more wide-eyed guys. Chunk’s manager came out from the back after adjusting his impossibly hard dick in his jeans and approached his prime Grade-A beefball that adorned the front of his restaurant.

Barrett rested his hands on his thighs as the manager came up to him, showing off how the sublimely tight well-worn cotton hugged every bump and bulge, and perfectly outlined his plump belly button. Barrett tilted his head back and looked his manager in the eyes, “Oh my God...I’m so ff-ff-uu-uu-ll-ll-ll-ll.” The manager smirked as he reached down to push around on Barrett’s big bloated belly. Engorged Barrett emitted a combination of grunts and belches, unable to tighten his long-softened abs enough to protect his pregnant belly against the directed pokes and musical thumping. “Sorry, Barrett, we have those new Chunk-y S’Mores Cookies and we need to push ‘em. That means, we’re gonna have to push this stomach of yours a little bit more.”

Barrett’s eyes somewhat crossed as he processed the latest directive. “I dunno. I think ...” Barrett paused to let out a really big burp, “I think I might explode.”

“Nah,” said the manager, “a big strong guy like you? Pfft. That strong table muscle of yours will just s-t-r-e-t-c-h to accommodate extra loading. The worst thing that might happen is that you’ll have to pop that top jeans button.”

“Okay, alright, well, let me get ‘em.” Barrett insisted, scooting his chair back with an obvious noise. Spreading his thighs apart and dropping his hard gut through the open space, Barrett placed his hands on the tops of his legs to push himself upright. It was no small amount of effort lifting his bulk off of the chair, but once he succeeded he had the attention of most of the diners in the seating area. Barrett’s belly was bloated out in a circle in front of him, and the ultra-taut waistband of his ridiculously stuffed jeans was scrunched down to a fraction of its height. Just south of the hefty gut was another bulge that eagerly pushed against the low-rise zipper. The manager followed the wobbling stuffed stud, smiling at all of the attentive chewing faces. It was so difficult not to fixate on Barrett’s widened back and his stout bubble butt, and the manager fought hard not to just slap his fat ass.

Once Barrett was standing, he realized that it was going to be harder than hell to sit back down and continue to eat, so he compromised with the manager to stand at the end of the counter by the register to stuff in his melty delicious cookies. Capturing the attention of a very hefty daddy type in line waiting for his giant sandwich to be made, Barrett smiled at him and stretched his thick arms up in the air. The hem of his overburdened tee shirt inched slowly up the sphere like a curtain rising on a stage as it bared the divine appearance of Barrett’s thick treasure trail and his perfectly shaped deep belly button. The round-gutted daddy ventured closer to the register after being served his thick sandwich and dessert cookies, still captivated with the sight of Barrett’s bare crescent of belly and naughty zipper that had started to escape down its track.

“Well, these sure looked good so I had to have some,” said the fattened daddy, winking at the manager, who stood beaming behind the extra full Barrett. “After all, I gotta keep up my figure. The food is always so damn good and filling here-- I never know when to stop!” The fattened daddy finished signing his credit card receipt and poked the capped end of the pen into the side of Barrett’s thoroughly pumped lunchball. “Looks like I’m not the only one, guy.”

Barrett chuckled as he ran his meaty hand across his swollen gut, “yup, the hazards of the job, I’m afraid. You just gotta remember to stop before you pop!”

The manager put his hand on the big stud’s shoulder, “tell you what, why don’t you go have a seat with this nice gentleman while he enjoys his lunch, and I’ll make you one of our Gut Topper Cake Shakes. Deal?”

“Gut Topper? Well, today, it might just become a Gut Popper...but okay. Load me up...”

The two guys headed off for a table in the back of the seating area near the kitchen. The fat daddy couldn’t wait to start pushing food down his gullet, so he plopped his big butt down and started shoveling. Barrett towered next to the table for a moment deep in thought, then reached under his enormous belly bulge to fight with his jeans button. “Dude, I’m sorry, but these things are cutting me in half.” The fat daddy’s cheeks bulged with food as he witnessed Barrett’s abdominal muscle contortions caused by the stuffed stud’s efforts to suck in the protuberant swell, but finally Barrett was able to pop open the top and breathe a little.

“Ooofff,” sighed Barrett, giving his rounded midsection an invigorating rub. Barrett held on to his zipper as he sat to make sure that the open “V” of his jeans didn’t spread too wide in a family restaurant.

“I couldn’t help but notice those jeans were pretty much painted on ya, big guy,” remarked the fat daddy.

“Yup, I’ve gained a few pounds since I started working at Chunk’s. The manager feeds me up daily.”

“Daily feedings? You might want to get some pants with an elastic waistband so you can expand in comfort.”

Barrett hovered down and planted his meaty bubbles in the chair directly across from the fat daddy, pretty much looking like a leaned-back, very-pregnant Buddha.

“Well, I know what that’s like to plan ahead for such things,” said the fat daddy, “my wife has been overfeeding me for years.” He leaned back and thumped his obvious gut bulge, “can’t say that I mind too much, after all, I love food.” The fat daddy’s eyes cruised over the topography of Barrett’s tight tee shirt. “I used to look like you when we first started dating, well, you about 50 pounds ago and before you stuffed your gut today.”

Barrett chuckled again, his facial expression slowly turning into concentration as he tried to do arithmetic in his head. “...and you’re not as tall as I am. If you don’t mind me asking, how much do you weigh?”

“By the way, my name’s Josh.” Both had to spread their thighs apart to make room for their bellies so that they could lean in to shake hands. “I don’t mind you asking me how much I weigh-- in fact, I just got my 300 pound ribbon at Recipe Club.”

“Recipe Club?”

“It’s something my wife got us into. Just a small group started by women who love to cook or are learning how to cook, and they invite their guys to join them to enjoy their rather prolific production.”

“...and you got a ribbon?”

“Yeah, I guess it’s the opposite of what Weight Watchers rewards, but we watch our weight as well. Watch it increase!” Josh giggled. “Needless to say, the guys get more ribbons faster during the holidays. We have to weigh in when we get there, and some of us weigh again as we’re leaving... just for fun.”

“What a trip!”

“...speaking of trips, we just took the kids through Vegas and then on a Disney cruise, and I can’t believe the amount of food.” Josh continued through frequent large bites of sandwich, “it was like the ideal glutton vacation... I was powerless amongst all those buffets and high-calorie foods! My belly was so damn big and tight at the end of each night that you could have rolled me to our room. Roll... Burp... Roll... Burp...”

As Barrett was drawn in to the imagery of Recipe Club and Josh’s trip of unrestrained gorging, he wondered about the timing of certain things. “So, when did you go from DadBod to DadBalloon?”

Josh got a good laugh out of the pointed question. “Kid number two.”

As they were both still cracked up over Josh being fattened up, Chunk’s manager appeared with a large frosty cup and a funnel. “Okay, Barrett, tilt and open!”

Josh smiled broadly as he detected Barrett’s newness to the concept, though he suspected that he must have beer bonged a little during some wild parties. Barrett wrapped his full lips around the bottom of the funnel opening and the manager pushed it a little farther down into his mouth once he felt his lips tighten up to steady. As he poured the giant vanilla cake shake slowly into the funnel, he was careful not to spill a drop. Barrett’s eyes widened and he put his hand on top of his again-swelling belly. Josh stuffed his face as he watched the bottom of Barrett’s rib cage rise as his bloatation device deployed fully. One of the cooks was returning from his break and stopped by the filling station to put his hand on top of Barrett’s solid round protruding stomach ledge, “wow, it’s a Gut Topper! Barrett-- you’re gettin’ to be a whopper!” The cook couldn’t resist giving Barrett’s barrel a parting slap to hear him grunt.

Barrett’s breathing was getting quite labored towards the end of the giant shake, and his nipples were practically shooting through his ultra-taut tee shirt. The advanced size of the Barrett’s fattened belly coaxed the hem up again to bare succulent skin and dark-colored fur.

Josh nearly choked shoving food into his mouth at such a high rate of speed, but he got down his enormous sandwich just as the manager finished loading Barrett’s firm round Buddha gut. The manager lifted the funnel out of Barrett’s O-shaped mouth as the dangerously overfull stud licked shake remnants off of his lips and continued to swallow the rest down his gullet. Barrett just had to sit there with his hands down his sides, feeling that his beefy pecs were about to bump him in the chin at any moment. The manager nodded his head and reached down to thump the mighty round bellyful. The combination of thick muscle walls, a nice layer of fat, and a thoroughly packed digestive tract made the most sublime of deep satisfied sounds.

“Good God, that melon is ripe.” Josh critiqued, leaning back to rest his hand on top of his big sandwich lunch. “And Barrett bared it-- that shirt is too small for ya, big buddy!”

Barrett’s smile curled onto his lips with a bit of a delay caused by his food coma. After the manager left, Barrett put his hands on his overblown balloon and rubbed.

“Man, you look like how I felt after the 24 hour buffet pass in Las Vegas. You know, I knew that it was going to be a bad thing-- I could tell when I walked in the first place and saw all of the groaning, belching guys. They looked like fully engorged ticks about to pop. Well, that was me a day later because we just kept going back for more and more and more. My lovely bride overate, my daughter got bored, but my son found his groove. I was laughing at him little at breakfast because he’s got a weakness for waffles, pancakes, pastries, and bacon.” Josh laughed as he listened to Barrett wheeze with his eyes half-closed; Barrett’s fully distended gut had swollen even more with the cake shake, pushing him farther back against his chair. “Of course, he got me back later in the day after second dinner. We were back in the room, and I was bloated out on the floor next to the couch while we were all watching a movie. Ever since I read him “Hop on Pop” when he was a kid, he’s wanted to bounce on my belly-- especially after I eat too much. He thinks it’s really funny.”

Suddenly, Barrett emitted a lengthy bass-toned belch, causing both of them to laugh heartily. Barrett patted his thoroughly round belly and flexed his pecs. “I’m pretty sure that if anyone hopped on me right now, I’d pop for sure!”

Josh munched on his cookies and agreed. “You could bounce a quarter off of that gut right now, Barrett. You remind me of some of those big bloated-up young guys on the cruise ship. Poppin’ Fresh Pillsbury Doughboys gorging their way to tight-skinned ecstasy, unbuckling their belts and stuffing themselves like Thanksgiving turkeys. I would think ‘damn, I hope we don’t hit a rock and end up shipwrecked on some island full of hungry cannibals’” Josh said as he finished the last bite of his marshmallowy chocolatey gooey cookies.

“Ooof, a stuffed Thanksgiving turkey-- that’s how I feel at the moment,” Barrett admitted as he gave his stout round belly another rubbing.

“And look,” Josh said, supporting the astute observation. “Just squeeze you in between some big bowls of mashed potatoes, stuffing, gravy, and sit a pumpkin pie on top of your belly ledge for dessert.”

Josh glanced at his watch and realized that he was late to get back to work. “Guess I better get my fat ass in gear.” Josh hoisted himself up, satisfied with the extra-large lunch and conversation, brushing past Barrett just as he took that moment to stretch his arms up in the air. Josh paused to smack a couple deep-seated belches out of Barrett. “Keep eatin’, big guy, keep rollin’ down that path to the big 3-0-0... but keep an eye out for cannibals!”

~.~

Many weeks passed, and Barrett’s allure changed somewhat to the ladies who lunched at Chunk’s. It seemed that the amount of weight he’d gained was difficult for some of them to accept; after all, he’d plumped by forty pounds in a relatively short time after significantly long lunchtime stuffings. Barrett still presented as quite beefy with one foot still in the gym, but there was no denying his big round belly and widened booty that mercilessly stuffed his shrinking wardrobe. His handsome face had filled out accordingly and he had the start of a second chin hidden under his fuller beard; regardless, his piercing blue eyes and immaculate grooming still caused heads to pivot. Josh the 300+ pound daddy continued to come in once a week to stuff himself with sandwich, and Barrett always treated him to at least one Gut Topper. Josh would especially enjoy the belly blowout when Barrett personally funneled the extra creamy cake shake down his gullet.

Awhile back, the manager had hired a new cook when Chunk’s had added pizza to their calorie-driven menu. Barrett had recognized the guy immediately from high school, although Peter’s 5’11” frame had filled out some since those earlier days. Peter had been a swimmer all during high school and was always pretty wide-shouldered and lanky, which changed through his college experience in the dining halls. Of course, Peter recognized Barrett right away as well, and would tease him about how fat he’d become. Barrett would always comment right back about Peter’s modest college weight gain. Chunk’s cooks wore nice pullover shirts that bore the restaurant’s logo on the left breast, and Peter’s shirt was always a little pizza sauce-splattered and tight. Peter’s pudgy round belly pooched out over his Dockers taut waistbands, and no one could miss his pasta butt that stressed the seam in the back.

The two former schoolmates never really talked much in school, but they developed a friendly, yet somewhat tense, rivalry at work. Peter was slightly jealous with the fact that Barrett got away with hardly working and mostly just eating while he sat on his constantly widening ass. The manager had added pizza to Barrett’s daily demonstration, and Peter was usually the one that made the pie. Peter would deliberately pile on additional toppings, knowing that Barrett would have to stuff the slices down on top of his torturously large sandwich and sides.

After a month of silent warfare, both Barrett and Peter had packed on weight. Barrett was undeniably impressed with Peter’s bloat capacity and how much the littler guy could stomach in one stretching session. Peter, who loved the fact that his packed pizzas were adding to both Barrett’s bottom and front lines, immensely enjoyed the big stud’s trips in to the kitchen to moan about his overloaded gut. Barrett was supposed to sweep around the kitchen after his lunch demonstration, and he’d invariably be as close as possible to Peter so that he could bump him with his solid gutsphere. Barrett would belch in Peter’s general direction to egg him on, and soon Peter would march on up to the 6’2” beefster and playfully threaten to punch his big ol’ gut. Barrett would push his belly out even more and tell Peter to give it his best shot. The manager would always intercede in time saying “Don’t pop him! Barrett has to work tomorrow!”

Time bulged on, and the manager had to bring in a scale due to rising concerns about their Frontline Eater position, of which Barrett had done such an incredible job filling. “Boy, are you ever fat now,” the manager told Barrett as he processed the number on the scale’s display, “three hundred and twenty pounds. I’m afraid that we’re going to move you to back of house for awhile-- put the big beefer out to pasture, so to speak. Your gluttonous performances are still bringing in the fat guys, but the average group of ladies who lunch seem to think you’ve gotten too fat for them to fantasize about over their porky husbands.”

“Aw, come on!” Barrett spurted out, “I know women still look at me.”

“Well, yeah. They look at you and think about the big fat growling gut they’re going to have to go home and feed that night. All the work they’ll go through stuffing their husband’s belly enough so he’ll fall asleep on the couch and not bother them for the rest of the night.”

A vision of his fat daddy friend Josh popped into Barrett’s mind. “Some women enjoy feeding their hubbies-- in fact, they relish the thought of fattening them up.” Barrett’s crotch tingled a bit as he remembered Josh’s most recent Chunk’s visit when he owned up to weighing 350 pounds and whispering the most arousing admission in his ear. Josh had dreamed one night that he’d been stretching his belly for weeks in the hopes of growing it immense enough to hold a stuffed Thanksgiving Barrett.

The manager’s mind was made up, so he put Barrett next to Peter in the kitchen so that they could work out any issues the two had while Barrett shed a few pounds. The days went by with the two reminiscing about the old days and pretty much making a buffet of the prep tables. It was on a Friday when Peter offered one particularly compelling memory.

“You remember that time at the school assembly when three of you guys on the football team had a pizza eating contest in front of the whole school?” Peter asked.

“Oh yeah. My gut ached the rest of the afternoon,” Barrett confessed.

“Oh damn... well, you won....and you ate the entire pizza,” Peter recalled. “You had the biggest fucking belly that day...”

“I remember that.” Barrett smiled, “after school, I was sprawled out on the grass in Senior Square warning guys not to step on my belly.”

“You were wearing this really tight orange pullover shirt and I thought your belly looked like a big pumpkin.” As Peter shared his thoughts, Barrett chuckled and patted his much fatter, bigger belly. “I had like ten dollars and I wanted to take you to McDonald’s and get you whatever you wanted.”

“You did? Huh...” Barrett thought for a moment. “Guess that would have made you ‘Peter Peter Pumpkin Feeder’ in a way...” Barrett thought for another moment, “wait... that’s why you would makin’ my pizzas so big! You’ve been fattening me up on purpose!”

Peter slapped Barrett in his big ol’ belly. “Well, truth be told, you were already amply fattened when I started here... nicely marbled beef... I just wanted you to get a little fatter.”

“A little fatter? Well, I’m 320 pounds now.” Barrett stated, bumping his firm round gut into Peter’s fat belly. “Feel the size of this beast now!”

“My guess is that this beast needs to be fed,” Peter said, grabbing on to each side of the studly gut being pushed into him. “I’ve got ten dollars for McDonald’s after work...”

Somehow, Peter and Barrett kept their minds on finishing their shifts at Chunk’s, and agreed to meet at the nearest McDonald’s at six o’clock. Peter decided to keep his work clothes on, despite the fact that he smelled like an overweight pizza. Since he’d gone ahead and eaten his free work meal, his Dockers were exceptionally tight despite the fact that they were pushed down far below his fat belly. Barrett had gone home and rifled through a few drawers to find that famous orange pullover shirt from high school, only to find that he nearly ripped it getting it over his much more developed chest and arms, and the old top was no match for his very ample belly. The shirt couldn’t reach to cover his wide love handles and the hem created a crisp line around his big manly gut above his dreamily deep belly button. He had one last pair of jeans that he put forth his best effort to button, and walked out of the house looking like a giant overstuffed sausage.

Barrett walked in to the McDonald’s and immediately felt eyes gluing to his bared belly; among other sets, one set of eyes belonged to Peter, and another set belonged to Josh-- Barrett’s fat daddy friend from Chunk’s. Josh’s hefty wife turned her head to see who her chubby hubby was gawking at and seemed suitably impressed. Peter stood up, shifted his boner, and walked over to meet the vision in orange that wobbled his way closer.

“How about that-- that shirt fits differently than it did in high school, Barrett!”   “Just a little bit. I’m a few pounds heavier now.”

Both of them strolled up to the counter together, each enjoying the reaction of the chubby young counter dude whose mouth dropped open in response the audacity of Barrett’s attire.

“What do ya want? My treat.” Barrett offered, rubbing Peter’s shoulder.

“Oh, it’s my treat, Barrett.”

“Let’s do this-- I’ll get you what I want you to eat, and you can do the same for me. How about that?”

Soon enough, the two Chunk’s employees had decided on a booth across from where Josh and his wife still sat eating. Before taking a seat, Barrett and Peter said hello to the oversized married couple, carefully noting the pile of empty boxes and wrappers in front of Josh. Even though it was one of the booths made larger to more easily accommodate fat people, Josh was obviously stuck. The table’s edge butted firmly against his enormous round belly, and the portion above table level bulged onto the surface an inch. Josh’s ribs were shoved up and back around the bloated stomach, and it was as hard for him to speak as it was to breathe.

“Josh, I do believe that you’ve been fed into place!” Barrett said.

“Indeed he has,” came the voice from across the table. “We’re stretching his belly all day today-- kids are at their grandparents. There’s a young pup at Recipe Club that’s about to get his 360 pound ribbon and Josh has got to keep up! You must be Barrel-- I mean, Barrett,” she said, looking at the tall stud’s ample belly.

Barrett chuckled. “Yes, that’s me, Barrett. And I guess I do resemble a food barrel these days.” He shook her hand and introduced Peter. “Well, well, Josh. Just look at this huge belly wedged in this booth...” Barrett gently poked around on the top of Josh’s overstuffed belly.

“Careful, now... don’t poke too hard. You’ll pop the pig! He’s been eating all day to stretch his belly for an upcoming Vegas trip. I mean, he hasn’t been able to stop thinking about that 24 hour buffet pass and wants to go for a three day gorging weekend.”

“Haven’t been able to get enough to eat today, boys,” Josh wheezed.

“That can definitely be a problem,” Peter observed with an unmistakably evil smile on his face.

Barrett thumped Josh’s enormous gut and said, “keep on stuffing, Josh-- Thanksgiving is comin’ and you’re either going to eat or be eaten!” Reaching over to his serving tray, Barrett grabbed a Quarter Pounder box and sat it on top of Josh’s solid ball of food.

Two McDonald’s employees, including the chubby guy poured into his uniform, brought two trays each over to where Barrett and Peter had chosen to plant their numbered sign. Without much more conversation, the two guys got down to business and began stuffing themselves. Josh sat and belched while he digested, watching with great interest as Barrett and Peter blew up in size. Their enthusiasm for gorging was amazing to watch. It was no surprise that they finished all of that food and four soda refills only to look at each other and say “More!”

Josh’s wife took his wallet up to the counter and surprised Barrett and Peter with another round of Big Macs, Quarter Pounders, fries, and Chicken McNuggets. Peter’s incredible ability to bloat up into a round ball raised eyebrows near and far in the restaurant. His Chunk’s uniform shirt’s hem inched up the stuffed belly ball, and his Dockers launched into space as he heaved a satisfied sigh.

“Your belly is gettin’ big,” Barrett said to his rotund dinner mate.

“Well, look who’s talking,” plump-bellied Peter turned around on the overstuffed stud. “It’s like someone connected that pumpkin to a tire pump!”

Barrett’s orange pullover had slid up above his packed-taut bloatsphere, exposing the full height of his treasure trail. Barrett’s belly button, with its fat rounded entry, begged for a chubby finger to explore its warm depths.

“I say we go pick up a box of donuts and go to my place, Peter.”

The two roundbellied twentysomethings thanked fat daddy Josh and his wife for their generosity and waddled their way out to their trucks. “Hope you get full enough, Josh!”

“Never!”

Peter picked out the fat pills at the best grocery store bakery in town, making sure to choose an enticing array of all kinds, including extra-filling-fattening cream-filled ones, before speeding on over to Barrett’s address.

“C’mon in if you have donuts...” Barrett teased as he stood there in his ridiculously undersized orange pullover and underwear with a spot of wet pre-cum at the end of his fully lengthened cock.

Peter broke into a sweat from the heat radiating off of the engorged stud, shaking a little as he set two boxes of donuts on the dining room table. Barrett slapped Peter’s butt that was as yet encased in the seam-stressed Dockers, “damn your ass got fat after high school.”

“I like to eat,” Peter told him turning his head sideways.

“I can tell. The pregnant belly was another dead giveaway.” Barrett pulled Peter’s pants down and bent him over the dining room table. Peter’s stout full belly smacked on the surface like a gargantuan slab of bacon and Barrett watched his sides bow out under the pressure. Barrett shifted his loaded cock into the upright position and rubbed it back and forth between Peter’s plump buns. “Fuck that feels good....my gut’s so fucking big that I can’t see what I’m doing, but I can definitely feel the heat from your hole...”

“Jesus, your dick is as big as I always thought it was...” Peter grunted.

“You got me so hot that I’m brimming with cum today... if I pumped your ass right now, I’d shoot a load so fat that your belly would explode.”

“Do it, fat stuff,” Peter begged, “because after you pop my cherry in grand style, I’m gonna feed you every last donut in that box. You stuff my butt and I’ll bust your gut.”

Nearly breaking the table in the process, Barrett finished the deed, pumping Peter completely full of his seed.

Taking Barrett by the hand and grabbing the box of donuts, Peter led his round target into the bedroom. Getting situated leaned against the headboard and spreading his legs far apart, Peter motioned for the ballooned stud to lay belly-up on him with his head on his shoulder. Once Barrett was in place, there was not going to be any moving him for an extended period of time. Peter’s view around Garrett’s head was of a tall round mountain that wobbled from side to side when the bed shook. “Will you just look at the size of this fucking tank?!” Peter put his hands on either side of Barrett’s enormously swollen stomach and spread his fingers. Gently shaking the massive sphere of manflesh, Peter breathed heavily in Barrett’s ear as the heavy stud continued to weigh down on his own achingly full stomach. “Soldier, you’ve really let yourself go...your punishment is going to be severe... forcefeeding until your greedy belly bursts like an overblown balloon.”

Peter picked through the donuts and began stuffing them into Barrett’s eager maw in rapid succession. As icing began to collect in the overfed boy’s beard, his tongue worked overtime to get every last bit. As Barrett was chewing nearly unmanageable mouthfuls, Peter rubbed all over the swelling stomach. With a whole box of donuts down the gullet, there was a giant mound formed that pushed straight up in the air. Peter thumped on the top of the donut dome, amazed at how dense it sounded and the volume of belch it quickly produced. Barrett’s advanced gut was easily the size of a beach ball, and Peter was wishing that he had a view far enough away to fully appreciate its fullness.

“Oh God, I’m gonna pop,” Barrett moaned.

Peter pushed his index finger into the top of Barrett’s solid donut dome and tested it for doneness. “Nope, you’re not ready yet,” Peter whispered in his 320+ pound stud’s ear and opened the second box.

Engaged in relentless stuffing, Barrett’s gutsphere stretched wider and taller. Peter spread his fingers as far apart as possible to rub as much belly at once as he could. Barrett’s panic was becoming more evident as his taut, shiny ball maxed out with half of the second box of donuts crammed inside.  “Okay, Soldier, I’ll spare your gut from certain explosion,” Peter announced. Barrett responded with an wall-shaking belch. Squashed a little under the weight of the overfed stud, Peter wriggled his way out and stood at the side of the bed admiring the gigantic beach ball. The bottom of his enormous gut was as taut as the top, and the roundness bumped against his spread meaty thighs.

Peter slowly made his way on to the bed, throwing his leg over Barrett’s wide body and bouncing his fat butt briefly on the tall mountain of belly. Realizing that he was about to push several donuts right out of Barrett’s mouth, Peter quickly slid down off of the ball gut and landed on his hard-again cock. Peter was reminded of how full his own belly was as it met fatly against the bottom third of Barrett’s gutsphere. Peter regained his strength, grabbed a hold of each of Barrett’s meaty pecs and humped his cock against the giant hard belly. Getting ready to shoot his load, Peter grabbed another donut, plugged Barrett’s furry feedhole with it, and ate up the sight of Barrett’s hungry expression as he spurted cum all over Barrett’s lower bellysphere.

“Feels good to get caught up on lost time, huh?”

#kyaadaoriginal weightgainfiction DadBod feeder feedee grommr feabie

919 notes · View notes

dreadhaus-literature · 6 years ago

Text

{Headcanon} Butcher Boys

I~ love Leatherface. I doubt that’s a surprise to anyone at this point, but what may be a surprise is--well actually I don’t have a good segue from that point to the point that I want to write about him, today. I’ve been obsessing over him again, so I wanted to talk about him because he doesn’t get talked about enough.

Anyone could likely guess that’s why I started paying attention to him in the first place. Boy stirs up my Mama Bear like nobody’s business for lots of reasons.

Now, I should mention I sort of split things up a bit differently than what is considered “canon” in the Texas Chainsaw Massacre universe--there’s actually two Leatherfaces: Bubba Sawyer, and Thomas Hewitt. In my head, when it’s just me and my embarrassing thoughts, I merge the two together because it’s easier, but in terms of roaming about the Haus, Bubba and Thomas are both here. Why, you ask?

Because twice is nice, and two adorable Leatherfaces are better than one, why are you asking me stupid questions.

I’m planning on doing dual headcanons so I can talk about the difference and similarity between the two boys, and really just allow me to gush about them because I need to. I’m going to be writing them with the ‘you’ perspective being a random member of the Haus wanting to read more about Leatherface; I’m not sure how Moni feels about the boys (they absolutely adore her already, but I told them they have to wait until I get the all-clear) so I won’t throw her onto their laps...

...yet...

L E A T H E R F A C E The Texas Butcher

First things first, we need to talk about the physical differences between Bubba Sawyer and Thomas Hewitt, because it’s one of the easiest ways to tell them apart, and that way you’ll know who I’m talking about when I refer to them by name for the rest of the headcanons.

And just, you know, because staring at them is nice. ♥

Bubba Sawyer

Bubba’s a big boi

He’s doughier than Thomas is

Round belly and thick thighs, this Texas Cinnamon Roll is A+ for cuddles

Bubba runs hot (boy’s practically a furnace 24/7) but doesn’t seem to notice the heat

0/10 affected by the cold

Don’t let the squishy boy fool you, though; he hauls meat for a living and he does heft a full-sized chainsaw around every single day

There’s fat, but it’s just insulating muscle

Bubba’s got biceps to make any man jealous, and those thighs may jiggle when he walks but they’re tree trunks that have to support his towering frame on top of the bodies meat he hauls day in and day out

If you’re worried about Bubba’s physique being a hindrance, don’t

Bubba’s hair is shorter than Thomas’s, but that’s mostly because it’s curly

Thick, bouncy, unruly dark brown curls that he doesn’t do a thing with

Seriously, someone needs to wash this boy’s hair, I promise it’s worth it; he’ll giggle and try to sit still, but he’ll bounce a little, excited just because you’re paying him attention

Bubba wears a full face mask, always made of someone else’s face/skin, held together by thick leather twine that he ties at the back fo his head

Thomas Hewitt

Thomas is another Biggun

Thomas appears taller than Bubba, but that’s because Bubba is wider

Thomas would argue he has more muscle than Bubba, but there’s really no way of telling; this argument is touted mostly just because Thomas’s muscle is easier to see

Another round belly boi, though Thomas’s chest is broader and his gut is smaller than Bubba’s

Arms, arms, arms

Thomas’s forearms are the stuff wet dreams are made of; thick and veiny, because he’s another butcher who spends his days hauling meat and victims back and forth

Legs like tree trunks, a back broad enough to sleep on, and since Thomas is heavier-handed than Bubba is, his fists really carry the appearance of sledgehammers

Thomas has the power and desire to back that up

Thomas’s hair is longer than Bubba’s and it’s straight--except during humid weather, when it gets a little wavy

His hair is black, not dark brown, but just as thick as Bubba’s

Like Bubba, Thomas doesn’t give two shits about his hair and you’ll need to wash it for him if you want it done

And he does want you to do it, because that means you’ll be close to him

Thomas wears a partial face mask, that has to always at least cover his deformed nose, jaw, and chin. Unlike Bubba, Thomas will wear regular leather, and since it isn’t a full face mask, it doesn’t have facial features, simply an open slit for his mouth

What makes them both Leatherface:

Both Thomas and Bubba suffer from facial scarring and disfigurement due to a degenerative disease and self-mutilation

Bubba’s scarring is more pronounced, as his disease is more aggressive and he’s more prone to self-mutilation than Thomas

This is due to two reasons; one, Bubba is an abuse victim with horrific self-esteem issues, and two, he’s a masochist who enjoys the sensation of pain

Both men suffer from heavy disfigurement in their noses, which leaves their noses all but gone--

Bubba is easily the shier of the two when it comes to his face; he wears a full face mask vs Thomas’s half-mask, and he will not be seen without it if he’s not around someone he loves and trusts

Thomas also wears his mask faithfully around the Family, but he seems to exude a different aura than Bubba so one might assume he isn’t as shy--don’t let the Big Guy fool you. If you’re not one of the two people he loves and trusts, any attempts to take his mask off will result in aggression

Growling, squaring his broad shoulders, and glaring as he pushes your hand away from his masked face

Bubba will just blubber and whine, and duck his head out of your grasp until you stop

Any attempts to remove either of their masks from anyone outside of the Family will get the motorized end of the saw

Personality

Bubba is the teddy bear of the two; he’s squishy, cuddly, and eager to please. Because he’s been abused the majority of his life that’s led to a Pleasing Complex, where he is constantly, desperately searching for acceptance and to know he’s done a good job

Thomas comes from a family that was more supportive and he doesn’t have Bubba’s pleasing complex as a result, but that doesn’t diminish Thomas’s need to provide for the Family and ensure he’s doing his part

Thomas is more the quiet protector or enforcer out of the two; he observes, he’s defensive and overprotective of what’s his, and he is dangerously unforgiving

Loyalty and Family are both incredibly important to both men, and neither one will hesitate when it comes to killing to protect or defend anyone who calls the Haus home

Because of the abuse in Bubba’s past, he is quick to over-correct bad behavior and will overcompensate to correct even the slightest mistake

Both Thomas and Bubba share an incredibly strong work ethic, which has been ingrained in them by their original families for years and years

Both men are mute as a result of their degenerative disease

This has led to incorrect assumptions that either or both men are slow or retarded; there’s been no proof of this.

Bubba cannot read as his family never tried to teach him (as they themselves treated him as though he was retarded) and Thomas never put much stock into school (he didn’t/couldn’t attend due to his disfigurement) but he is able to read simple words and sentences

Bubba can recognize his own name when it’s printed

Thomas knows ASL but most aren’t aware as he doesn’t usually sign back--this is by choice, by the way, not because he can’t

Despite not being able to speak, Bubba is a noisy boi

Giggles, sighs, inquisitive noises, moans--Bubba likes to express himself and will do so in any way he can

Thomas is the quieter of the two, as Bubba prefers to babble like a toddler, expressive even though he can’t actually speak

Some mistakenly believe Thomas can’t make noise but that isn’t true. His noises are deeper than Bubba’s, and he prefers grunts and groans to giggles and soft sighs

Bubba is not afraid of expressing emotion

Thomas is more reserved about the showing of emotion, but if he is shown emotion he will reciprocate immediately

Bubba answers to any variation of his name, but sadly he will also respond to any negative names people call him due to his family taking to call him “Retard” when he was growing up

Do not call Thomas anything negative if you like your head where it is

In fact, just call Thomas by his name; no nicknames outside of Tommy, just to be safe

Both men answer to Leatherface

Quirks / Traits

Both Thomas and Bubba prefer chainsaws over any other weapon of choice and it’s become something of a security blanket for them both, as it’s a way for them to defend themselves and the Family

While he’s working, Bubba prefers hammers and butcher knives

Thomas prefers meat cleavers or his bare hands

Bubba is an excellent cook

Seriously, let this boy cook for you and you’ll have a belly to match his in no time; he’s been responsible for cooking for the Sawyers for years and it shows. He knows his way around any and all cuts of meat, and if you praise him a single time over his cooking he’ll be trying to feed you constantly

Thomas knows how to cook, but he prefers to prepare the meals and leave the actual cooking to Bubba or someone else. It’s not that he’s against cooking, it’s just he’d rather do the hacking and slashing. He likes his hands dirty

That is also where the boys differ

Bubba was raised to believe it’s Family against the world, and was taught to murder through abuse and thus was never actually taught it was wrong. Any attempts to tell Bubba that killing people is wrong will be met with confused puppy head tilts and blubbering to the contrary

It can’t be wrong if it’s for the Family!

As a result, Bubba is fiercely protective of the Family and the Famlly property, and he’s a saw first, ask questions never kind of guy

Be patient with him, he doesn’t know any better and he thinks that’s how it’s supposed to be

Thomas, on the other hand, knows better. He was raised to understand right from wrong and he knows that, on some level, killing and cannibalizing people is “wrong” in the eyes of the law

But the law is wrong

Thomas won’t care if you try to change his mind about that; he likes the way people taste and he doesn’t care about anyone who isn’t Family, so you may be wasting your time trying to convince him otherwise

Besides, Thomas is a butcher, and he slaughters farm animals all day. There’s no way that’s right but killing people is wrong. He’s a simple man but he’s not stupid

Bubba does not leave the Haus properties; he has a wide array of masks but all of them are made of human flesh and he can’t exactly leave the safety of the Haus properties wearing someone else’s face

Thomas will leave the Haus properties; he might get weird stares wearing his half-masks but he’s a hulking behemoth anyway, so he’d be stared at regardless

Bubba enjoys classical music, especially when he’s working

He knows he’s hideous (why do you think he hides behind someone else’s face?) but the music is so pretty it makes him think of pretty things, like flowers and sunshine, and for a little while he can forget his own face while he sits and listens

Thomas prefers bluegrass or rock

He needs something loud, and he likes that some of the songs he can relate to on a more emotional level. Music can help him express himself as he can’t speak, and he likes the way it feels

Bubba only likes cold drinks; sweet teas, sodas, milk!!!, and beer

Thomas is fine with anything; he will drink black coffee, and he prefers darker ales when he’s drinking beer

Affection

Both boys are absolutely touch-starved and crave affection, so there’s never a worry anything is considered “too clingy” for them

Bubba is unused to positive touch at all, so he’s going to be over the moon with the smallest gesture

A pat on the head? He’s cooing

A hug? Hope you don’t have anywhere to be as he’s not letting go

A kiss on the cheek? You’re not crying, he is

Bubba will openly seek out and ask for affection, and he’ll be clingy even when he shouldn’t be, as the boy isn’t afraid of being hit or pushed away

Unlike some abuse survivors, Bubba isn’t discouraged by anger or shows of aggression, so even if you try to push him away, he’ll shuffle to the side and then immediately try again

You’ll have to forgive him; he’s touch-starved and in desperate need of some TLC, preferably 24/7

Thomas doesn’t come from an abusive background (per se) but he also was never really given affection so he’s just as touch-starved as Bubba is

Thomas won’t seek out affection like Bubba, but he’ll make it clear that’s exactly what he wants

Oh, you were putting your hand there? Well, his just happened to be there before yours

Were you going this way? That’s nice, so was he, and you won’t mind if he walks close to you, right?

You’re going to bed? He’s already in bed waiting for you, you’re the little spoon, good night

Thomas is always the Big Spoon; that’s just his preference as he prefers to curl his body around yours, one arm beneath your head, his other arm curled completely around your middle, and he’ll sleep with his cheek against yours

Thomas sleeps between you and the door always, because he’s distrusting and overprotective, which makes for an overbearing combination so i hope you don’t mind being smothered and also never out of this man’s sight just in general

Thomas is a wall of muscle and he’s pretty intimidating up close, especially since he can’t speak...and he likes to stare at you until he falls asleep

You’re just...the prettiest thing he’s ever seen, and he’s a man who has known a lot of ugly in his life. You can’t blame him for wanting to appreciate beauty now that he finally has it

I hope you used the bathroom before you got in bed, because Thomas’s grip is like iron. You’re not getting up without him

Bubba will switch between the Big and little spoon; depending on how his day went or what mood he’s in when it’s time for bed

When he’s the Big spoon, he prefers to sleep with you facing him, but given Bubba’s a big boi he’s plenty tall enough to bury his face in your hair, his arm around your lower back and the other around the middle of your back, keeping you locked to him all night

Remember when I said Bubba’s a furnace? This boy generates heat

You really won’t need any covers with him, but he likes snuggling under them with you anyway

Please don’t try to leave him in the middle of the night; if he wakes up without you, he will panic, and he will be a blubbering mess by the time you come back to bed--it doesn’t matter if it’s just to go to the bathroom, wake him up to tell him because the fear of losing you terrifies him

If Bubba’s the little spoon, he still prefers to sleep facing you, so anytime he opens his eyes you’re the first thing he sees. He sleeps with his head buried in your chest, his arms cinched tight around your middle

Other sleep arrangements include--

Sleeping on Thomas’s chest

Bubba half-crushing you by insisting he sleeps on top of you (especially if you are prone to getting out of bed without telling him)

Being wedged between both bois, trapped with zero hope of moving until both of them are awake and ready to let you go for the day

NSFW

You don’t need me to tell you, do you?

Everything is bigger in Texas

You don’t need to worry about any disappointments in the bedroom when it comes to the Sawyer boys, because the downstairs matches everything else

Girth, length--it’s all designed to leave you shaky, sore, and pregnant

Bubba’s cock has more girth, but Thomas has him beat in length

Bubba will stretch your walls to the point of discomfort and he won’t know any better, because he’ll be too busy burying his face in your neck to stifle the needy, wanton cries he’s making because you’re so tight

Thomas will knock your bottom out and he’ll take your scream to mean it’s good, he’s good, keep going--and he will, because he can’t stop now that he’s finally, fully inside you

Bubba, despite being raised on a farm, has very limited sexual experience. He’d seen his uncle’s magazines that had been stashed under the bed when he was living back home, but he didn’t understand what he was looking at

But what Bubba lacks in experience, he more than makes up for in eagerness

This boy is a pleaser in every sense of the word, and you’re going to have a fight on your hands if you’re wanting to please him for once, because he can’t keep his hands, his lips, his body off of yours long enough to understand there’s things you can do to him

Thomas has a little more experience than Bubba; he was also raised on a farm, but he paid more attention to the animals and he knows what breeding looks like

And trust and believe, Thomas will breed you

You’ll barely be able to get ahold of the edge of the mattress to steady yourself on your hands and knees before Thomas is drilling you into it, perhaps misunderstanding that the deeper he is, the more likely you are to be pregnant

You’ll have to forgive him, he’s just so needy...

Bubba is a S/switch, but he’s predominantly a submissive

Bubba’s kinks include praise, humiliation (abuse has unfortunately warped his masochistic tendencies into thinking this is love), S&M, littlespace (Bubba is both a little and a Daddy, depending on the situation/day) edging/orgasm denial, incest (Bubba comes from a close Family), forced feeding (you’ll be on the receiving end of this, every time), lactation, roleplaying (he’s got a wildly overactive imagination, so he’s extremely good at this), marking, necrophilia, and cannibalism

Bubba will pretend that he doesn’t like when you fight him, but he’s spent his whole life chasing down victims; he gets a thrill from the chase and the capture, so if you run from him, he will chase you down

If you don’t expressly tell him not to, he will chase you down with his chainsaw

But don’t worry, he won’t hurt you with it! He’ll just make you sit right on top of it’s vibrating handle until you’re a shaking, sticky mess, terrified of the spinning blade and trusting the iron grip around your middle not to let you slip and be split right in half

After-care is hugely important for Bubba even after normal sex, especially if he had his mask off during

Kisses, cuddles, letting him hold you as tightly or as closely as he wants, taking baths together, eating together--it doesn’t matter what you do, just be there with the Big Guy and he’ll be happy

He just needs you

Thomas is a Dom. Full-stop, he does not submit and he will expect you to, eventually

Thomas’s kinks include DD/lg (Thomas is a strict but caring Daddy Dom), edging/orgasm denial, S&M (Thomas is both a sadist and a masochist), forced feeding (again, this one is entirely you), breeding/forced impregnation, rape, necrophilia, marking, cannibalism, pet play (Thomas has a thing for collars and leashes) and bondage

Bubba doesn’t exactly like you in his workspace (it’s dangerous! What if you get hurt?!) but Thomas likes you down there--but on his terms. You’ll either be strung up on a meat hook (hung by a rope, not impaled--unless you tell him you want to be) with your feet barely touching the ground, so he can touch/fuck you as he likes while he works, or you’ll be lying in a pet bed beside his workbench so he can drop onto his haunches and feed you scraps through the day

Like Bubba, Thomas enjoys chasing you down, and even if you tell him not to...he may still chase you with his chainsaw. He’s pretty attached to the fucking thing, and he likes how wet you get when you’re scared

Thomas loves when you fight him, so go right ahead

Thomas takes aftercare seriously, and please don’t forget that he’ll need some of that, too. Thomas is a Dom but he’s also a man with a broken soul, so he’s going to need you to stay close to him, to stroke his hair or let him brush yours, to take baths together or let him slowly come down by marking you as much as he wants. It makes him feel better, to know you’re his

No matter the situation, the boys will have rules for you, and they do expect you to follow them

Bubba’s rules include do not talk to strangers, no leaving the Haus property without telling him, do not eat without him, do not go to bed without him, do not get out of bed without him, and no going into his workspace without him

Thomas’s rules include no talking to strangers, no leaving the Haus without him, do not go to bed without him, do not get out of bed without him, do not leave his sight if you are not with the Family, do not cover up his marks

Punishments for rule-breaking generally means a spanking, and both boys have hands calloused and large enough to count as a paddle, so you’re really not missing out on anything since they don’t use toys

Bubba prefers to bend you over his lap, but Thomas will bend you over any surface or even force you against a wall

If you continue to break the rules, the punishments will escalate to orgasm denial, branding (yes, that kind of branding), being tied to the bed/restrained, forced orgasms, and even forced impregnation

The boys will never punish you in a way that separates you; neither of them could stand the separation

Bubba doesn’t actually like punishing you (well...maybe he does, a little) but Thomas is entirely fine if you want to challenge the both of them left and right. They’ve both got a heavy hand--

But you knew that, by now, didn’t you?

#{theme} : headcanons #{character} : thomas hewitt #{character} : bubba sawyer #{ this turned into a goddamn character study }#{ but...it was nice to write }#{ i could talk about them for hourssss }#{ if nothing else it was good practice for learning/studying other characters later }

7 notes · View notes